My gut clenches at his touch. I place the drawing on the desk and wait, hoping he will leave.
Jean-Bernard reaches across me and plucks the drawing off the desk.
“Wondrous,” he coos, “may I keep it?”
“Yes,” I say. Anything to be rid of him.
“Thank you my darling,” he says lightly squeezing the back of my neck.
I flinch, frozen to the spot.
The door creaks, closes, locks. He is gone.
I dart to the door and listen. Footsteps creak away.
Grabbing the unfinished letter from beneath my pillow, I write.
*
Dear Mama,
Father has packed Eddie off to boarding school and I am worried that he intends to pack me off with a strange French man called Jean-Bernard who is thirty years my elder with creeping eyes and haptic hands.
Jean-Bernard visits every day, morn and night, claiming that it is to offer company. But his eyes go to unmentionable places and I dare not consider the path his mind travels. He is kind in certain ways I suppose, but suspicion nags like a buzzing fly around a proud mare. Does Father intend to marry me to this old man? The very thought of lying beside his wrinkled body is unbearable; shivers of revulsion course through me, my heart races...ugh! Surely Father cannot think this a plausible choice. No – I must be dreaming the worst. Perhaps Father has my best interests in sight and simply feels that Jean-Bernard can be the Father he cannot. But then, you said never to trust Father.
Oh that you were here Mama. Oh that you were here to stroke away the tension and tell me everything will be all right.
One small hope remains: that Bethan will come. I cannot fathom how she might acquire the key to my room and free me, but she did manage to enter the house and deliver a letter undetected so perhaps there is a chance she will succeed. Last time we spoke she talked of trouble at home. She wished to show me so that I could understand, but now she wishes to travel north. This perplexes me. One moment she wishes to show me, the next she wishes to leave. Perhaps the situation at home has changed irrevocably and she feels now is the right time to flee.
I hope that you are safe and happy.
Yours always,
Lisbeth
CHAPTER 8
VILLETTE
Jean-Bernard enters, softly places something upon my desk. The dull clunk of glass against wood.
I lie still as possible, slowing my breathing, relaxing my eyelids, focussing on pretending.
Fortunately Jean-Bernard falls for my trick and leaves as quietly as he came.
I wait until the floorboards lie silent then push off the blanket and swivel so that I can inspect his gift.
A transparent vase half-empty of water shaped like a sliced bud. Within the bud, erect and alert, a group of twigs stiffly rising out of the cropped carcass like arthritic fingers. At first glance, there seems no reason for water, but upon moving to view the other side there lives one delicate green bud, its lips pursing white. Its chance of survival is poor; amongst the lifeless limbs this bud alone lives and breathes and hopes that water and light will be enough. I decide to capture her before she diminishes and dies, as I am almost certain she shall.
Carefully, so as not to alert Father or Jean-Bernard to my wakened state, I slide into my chair and pick up a stick of charcoal.
An hour later there is a sudden thump on the door. My hand jumps, creasing the parchment.
Heart hammering, I listen.
Another thump; louder, angrier.
My throat tightens.
The key clangs, rattles, grinds in the lock. The door swings inward and a dark figure hulks in the doorway.
Dressed in mourning black, it is Father, his eyes dark, his face shadowed.
I jerk up, making sure to keep the chair between us.
“What is this?” he blurts.
His voice slaps me across the face.
He throws a ball of parchment at me and it hits my cheek.
I bend down, pick it up and slowly unravel the paper. It is my drawing of Bethan. Her queer, distorted face. Sad eyebrows. Twisted lips. I meet his eyes, but cannot bring forth words.
He steps into the room. Anger burns in his eyes and cheeks. With a shudder I notice the hard line of his jaw as his teeth grind together.
“Why Lisbeth? Why?”
His voice is raw with rage; hateful, rising, crushing, oppressive rage aimed solely at me.
I step backwards and bump into the bed. Cornered, I stare up into his narrowed eyes and urge my body to stop shaking. He runs a hand aggressively through his hair then smashes his fist into his thigh. I grasp the bed frame and stare helplessly into his eyes.
He moves so suddenly that I scream.
Tossing the chair aside, he lunges forward and grabs hold of my upper arms. I cry out and struggle, but Father digs his nails into my skin and begins to shake me. Fervently I pull away, but he will not let go and tightens his grip. Beads of blood form on my skin beneath his nails. Tears of terror and pain roll down my cheeks.
“Please, let me go!” I scream.
But he continues, a strange glee lighting his eyes as he shakes he so fiercely that it feels as though my brain is slamming against my skull.
“Please!” I sob, but he will not desist.
“Why can you not be normal again?” he spits.
“I know not what you mean!”
Tears flood my cheeks yet he shakes me as if trying to exhume some hateful daemon.
My body grows weak, my mind black. I am about to fall.
“Please let go Father. Please,” I whisper.
Suddenly he stops. His breathing is a rabid dog's, his breath sour with whiskey. His fingers loosen on my arms. His chin drops to his chest in defeat.
Without a word he snatches the drawing off the floor, tears it in two, storms out of the room and slams the door. There is no sound of the key in the lock, only pounding and creaking as he marches across the landing and down the stairs.
My knees buckle and I collapse on the ground. For a long while I stare at the unlocked door. At first I am too scared to move and sit shivering, sobbing, hugging myself, wishing Mama was here.
Gradually my terror recedes and I get up, grasp the cold door knob. I hesitate a second, maybe two, then something drives me forward. Some unconscious impulse has me open the door and step out onto the dark landing. A slave to this impulse, I edge along the wall until I reach the top of the spiral staircase. My eyes dart left and right.
I lift my foot to step down, but voices make me freeze. Jean-Bernard and Father. Coming this way.
I dash back along the landing, hear their footsteps at the bottom of the stairs. As I open my door they reach the top step. Gently I close my door and throw myself beneath the blanket. Moments later, my door creaks open. I wait, hunched up and trembling.
The door creaks shut and the key utters its terrible magic.
I remain a fly in a web. Alone. Always alone.
*
“Good morning,” Jean-Bernard murmurs, placing my breakfast plate by my elbow.
Abandoning my sketch of Eddie, I turn.
In Jean-Bernard's large hand sits a tiny, white fluff ball with huge, sad eyes; a living, breathing cuddly toy.
“She is beautiful is she not?” he says gently placing her onto my lap.
I smile - I cannot help myself. Immediately am I won over by her tiny, squished-up face; her plaintive black eyes, peach pink nose, cotton whiskers. Her fur is soft as dandelion petals. It melts between my fingers. A magical, heavenly fabric.
“She is yours. A gift from Charles.”
“Pardon?”
Already I feel my balloon deflating.
“Charles desired that I bring her to you. An apology for his rash behaviour of last night.”
I glance down at the kitten. Gone is airy delight. In its place lies gloom.
“I cannot,” I say, placing her in Jean-Bernard's hands.
“But Charles only means to please you Lisbeth.”
I turn away and resume my work.
“If he means to please me then why does he keep me locked up like some kind of injured beast?”
Tears fall. I keep my face turned away; Jean-Bernard cannot know of my fragility.
“Trust me, Lisbeth. All he wants is for you to be happy.”
“And how does being confined to one's room equal happiness?”
Jean-Bernard sighs.
“We believe it is dangerous for you to go wandering out of the house. There have been reports of women going missing in the area.”
I say nothing. I want to scream at him, tell him I know he is lying, order him to get out, but I cannot predict his reaction.
He touches my shoulder. I tense. His hand is horribly hot. The moistness soaks through my dress. His thumb strokes the nape of my neck. He presses himself against the back of the chair. I begin to tremble.
Suddenly his voice is in my ear, “I sense you are not feeling well. I will return this evening. I hope to see you in better spirits tonight.”
He leaves. Tension drains away, energy its fellow.
A scratching sound draws my eyes to the bed.
The kitten lies upon the blanket playing a thread.
I cannot help a small smile.
“Maybe I shall keep you,” I whisper.
Moving to the bed I stroke her fur with my index finger.
“And I shall name you...Villette.”
*
Dear Mama,
Villette – my kitten - is such a dear little creature that I cannot help but be inspired by her whimsical ways. Father gave her to me and at first I was reluctant to take her, but Jean-Bernard persuaded me to accept his gift. Now I am ever so glad that I did, for Villette provides a white light against the harsh darkness of my day.
However, at times I feel my mind edging into black. The bread knife still lies on the sill. Increasingly, I find my eyes slipping to the serrated edge, the jagged teeth, the darkly glinting metal. It grins at me and this scares me. Images too terrible to describe flash before my eyes and I fear that madness is not far away. I can feel it uncoiling, pooling out like inky blood, draining sensibility from my mind for outwardly I remain a perfect picture of feminine restraint, but for how long I can muster this behaviour I know not.
Jean-Bernard's advances grow intense, and I grow warier and warier, plagued by the notion that he wants me – mind, soul and body. I am beginning to see through his kindnesses. Fight as I might, I must acknowledge that his motives are impure, driven by those of the cunning, concupiscent beast who will stop at nothing to ensure his desires are sated.
Mama, would that you were here to guide me - Eddie is gone and Bethan is becoming but a distant memory. It is almost as if she were a figment conjured up by the will of a lonely girl.
I try to smile, but fear that very soon even Villette's sweetness will not be enough.
It is perhaps just as well that you cannot read this letter.
Lisbeth
*
Dear Diary,
So it seems that I am left with no choice. Jean-Bernard has convinced me – as I suppose I knew he would.
Blackened Cottage is not the right place for her. Being near me is not right for her, not any more. Not now that my mind has begun its final descent into the rottenness of anger and despair.
I have failed not only as a husband but as a father, just as I suspected I would. My little boy, my daughter, my wife: all are lost to me. If only I could control these tortuous emotions as a man should be able, but I cannot.
As much as I will myself to pander to Lisbeth’s needs, I cannot help but feel increasingly hostile towards her. Jean-Bernard firmly believes that this hostility could lead to violence on my part. He assures me that I am taking the only possible course of action by sending her to live with him in Hertfordshire.
How I shall live now is a mystery. I loved them. I mistakenly thought we would be together forever and now I have lost them. My life means nothing now. Nothing.
I shall not bid her farewell when he takes her. I cannot bring myself to witness this final loss. Neither can I trust myself to contain the rage that rises upon seeing those haunted eyes. Goodness! How disturbed I must be to hate her and love her in the same breath; to desire her happy yet feel the need to punish her; to want her here but want rid of her instantaneously. This is why I cannot trust myself, for I can never tell which side she may provoke: the daemon or the man.
No longer can I bear the sound of my own words.
Farewell good Diary. This is the last time I shall write.
C.C
*
“Bonsoir Lisbeth.”
He approaches, rusty cigar twirling between long fingers, pale, watery eyes fixed upon mine. Nauseatingly sweet cinnamon whorls in the air. I become a mouth-breather, desperate to avoid inhaling him.
“My darling, there is something of the utmost importance for us to discuss.”
He sits down on the bed beside me, so close that his hot thigh pushes into mine. I move up a fraction, gently placing Villette between us. She mewls for me to pick her up, but I do not; I need my hands free in case Jean-Bernard crosses the invisible line that I have drawn between us.
“I am listening,” I murmur, attempting to edge further away from his warm, pulsing body.
He reaches out towards my face. I flinch but he does not notice. He smoothes a stray hair from my cheek and sighs deeply, sticky hot breath condensing upon my cold lips. He gazes deep into my eyes, into my very soul, and I look away, terrified he will see beneath my calm exterior to the raw, frantic part that I try so hard to contain.
“Beautiful Lisbeth,” he purrs.
His large hand presses my thigh and begins to slide upwards inch by inch, journeying to my most private part.
“Tonight you must prepare your things for a long journey.”
I dare a downward glance and see that it is actually his cigar resting upon my upper thigh, not his hand. For a moment, I sense he is unaware of what he is doing, but then he wraps his strong arm about my shoulders and pulls me into him so tightly that I can scarcely draw breath.
Villette is an ineffective barrier; she lies at my back, clawing my dress.
I try to pull away but his grip tightens. His fingers dig into my upper arm reigniting old bruises.
“Tonight we venture to my home together. A new life for you. Are you not thrilled at the prospect? I myself feel rather excited to discover more and help you find yourself once again.”
My throat will not work, which perhaps is good because inside I am screaming.
His hand is on the back of my neck, fingers clasping like scorpion pincers, pressing into the taut, tender muscle. He bends his head and I swear he is going to force himself upon me, but instead he rips a loose thread off my collar and tosses it onto the bed.
“I know this is a lot for you to take in all at once. I shall take my leave. I look forward to travelling with you tonight. It will be a cold night so dress accordingly.”
Suddenly his lips are on my cheek – once, twice, thrice he kisses me. Wet, lingering lip-prints, marking his territory, claiming his prize.
He exits the room with a confident, arrogant stride.
I curl up into a quivering ball hugging Villette tight to my chest, my cheeks transformed into a waterfall. I cannot stop crying. I rock back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, hugging my little kitten tighter and tighter, taking what comfort I can from her soft warm body.
Father has clearly had enough. To think he can so easily and heartlessly toss me aside brings shudders of pain racking through me; misery; into blistering injustice - how dare he discard me like a common whore! How dare he abandon me! My body folds in upon itself like a snapped puppet; I am a hunchback; my hands and feet scrape together, my arms pop with ribbons of muscle, my nails dig half-moons into my scalp drawing ripe beads of blood. Something snaps inside me, and for hours I lie rocking. Rocking, rocking, rocking...
Eventua
lly my fit subsides. My body unfolds and flops back into the bed. My tears ebb and my breathing fritters into steadier waves.
I stroke Villette's dandelion fur. Her body is not as warm as usual. Through swollen eyes I look down my chin at her tiny body.
She looks strange. I stare at her; where is the rise and fall of her little chest? Why is she not moving?
A sob catches in my throat and for a split hair of a second I know agony like no other; I have killed her! By my own hands I have smothered my own little girl.
But abruptly she squirms to life and scrambles up to my face, resting her paws on my cheeks.
I am dead with relief.
CHAPTER 9
BREAD KNIFE
I return from the water closet to find Jean-Bernard in my bedroom sitting on the bed. In one hand he holds a squirming Villette, in the other, the bread knife. Father silently walks away leaving me alone with the French man.
“I found this under your pillow, Lisbeth. Just exactly what did you plan on doing with it? After all, there are plenty of knives in my home.”
My mouth has no voice. I stand there, aware that the door at my back is closed but not locked.
“Please answer,” he says stepping towards me.
I lower my eyes to the floor, notice the dusty grains filled with years of dead skin. My body begins to tremble and I cannot make it stop. My eyes dart from the bread knife to his eyes.
“I am a man of great patience, but even I can wait only so long.”
He steps closer, so close that his chest is an inch from mine and I can feel his hotness, his simmering rage, his sour lust. His eyes are so pale, so unreadable. I yearn to turn, dart out of the room, race down the stairs and away from him, from Father, from their dark plans, but the bread knife hovers above my arm. With one flick of his wrist, Jean-Bernard could render me utterly helpless. I imagine the blood flowing from the gaping wound. The pain, so much pain, too much to bear.
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