In the afternoon, the lawyers read the will. There were no surprises: Sebastian inherited everything.
At a meeting with Sewell, his father’s land agent, investment advisor, and the closest thing he’d had to a friend, Sebastian learned that “everything” was a sizable fortune. For such an irresponsible man, Lord Moreton had run up remarkably few debts, a testament to the business acumen of Mr. Sewell, Sebastian suspected, as much as to the magnitude of the Verlaine family fortune.
One of his lordship’s few passions in life had been the petty one of keeping his family on a short financial leash, reveling in their bitterness and complaints. His wife and daughter had constantly badgered him for more money, bigger allowances, a larger dowry. But Sebastian couldn’t stand giving him the satisfaction and had kept silent, living within his means, which by any objective standard were considerable. Now it was all his, the title, the houses, the farm estate, the investments, and all the capital.
Sewell was a smooth, sleek, well-spoken man who had grown wealthy in his own right as the old earl’s chief steward. Sebastian couldn’t help wondering in what other ways he differed from his own bailiff, William Holyoake, who was burly and rough-edged—and honest to a fault.
Two days and three nights later, after poring over half a dozen years of books, records, accounts ledgers, and receipts, he thought he had the answer: honesty was the only quality the two men had in common.
It was a relief. The longer he stayed at Steyne Court, the less he wanted to do with it; the fact that he could leave the management of it in Sewell’s capable hands without worrying made his probable abandonment of his ancestral home much easier to justify.
Then, too, try as he might, he couldn’t picture Rachel here, ever, under any circumstances. The coldness, the formality, his family’s shallow heartlessness—everything about Steyne was antithetical to her. “Perhaps I would do better as your London mistress,” she had said once. But in truth, he could only see Rachel at Lynton, in the pretty village that had somehow become his home. Wyckerley was the only place that deserved her.
The night before he was to leave, he called his mother and sister into the drawing room and told them what he had decided to do. To his mother he gave Steyne Court and all its valuable contents; he gave his sister Belle Pre, the house in Surrey. The London town house he would keep for himself, although they were free to visit it whenever they liked, as long as he wasn’t in residence at the time. In addition, he was settling a yearly sum on them, forty thousand pounds for his mother, sixty thousand for Irene—because she had a family—which they would have in perpetuity, to do with as they wished. He advised them to use the money wisely, since it was all they would get from him.
They grumbled a little for the sake of form, but he could tell they were pleased. They ought to be. Not only was it a generous settlement, a fortune compared to what they’d been able to squeeze out of the old man, it had the added advantage of making further contact among the three of them superfluous indefinitely, for any but the most extreme social circumstances—the funeral of the next one of them to die, for example. It was perfect.
As he was leaving the room, it occurred to his mother to ask him what he would do now, where he intended to live.
“I’ll live at Lynton,” he replied.
“Lynton!” the two women exclaimed in unison. They looked appalled. “But I’ve heard it’s a dreadful place,” his sister protested. “Falling down, depressing, no society whatsoever. How could you mean to live there, Sebastian?”
He might have answered glibly, but it was a fair question; six short months ago, he’d have been in sympathy with Irene’s consternation. “I mean to live there as well as I can,” he answered. “Between my own investments and Sewell’s, plus what’s left from the rents on Steyne Farm, I should think I’ll live very well indeed.” That made sense to them; they nodded knowingly until he added, “I can demolish a lot of derelict Lynton tenant cottages now and build new ones. There’s a prototype steam thresher I’ve been wanting to try out on the estate, and a pen of about eighty big Romney Marsh ewes I’ve had my eye on for a time. Holyoake, my bailiff, has been after me to repair the oast house and make some renovations to the dairy parlor. We need a hew barn for castrating the pigs, too,” he confided. “Last spring they kicked the old one to pieces.”
Neither his mother nor his sister could speak.
“Well, good night,” he told them, and went up to bed.
***
The journey home was interminable. He was obliged to ride to Dover for a direct train to London, and then he had to change in Reading, in Bristol, and again in Exeter. The farther he traveled from Rye, the more remote and unreal his family problems began to seem. Rachel had never been far from his thoughts, but as the train labored through the Black Down Hills of Somerset and entered the wooded river glens of Devon, she began to obsess them.
He thought he understood now what had drawn him to her in the first place. He’d seen her as the opposite of himself, and he’d wanted her to save him. Simple as that. She’d stood in his mind for survival, because she’d been through hellfire and come out strong and whole, indestructible. What had he ever suffered? Except for a drunken duel or two, he’d never faced death or even danger; in all of his wasted, numbing, unmanning life he’d never stood up for any principle except libertarianism. His plan had been to use her, but personally risk nothing. Take, but not give. He’d felt a perverse delight in her helplessness, the condition he’d relied on in cold blood to have her.
But her helplessness had become intolerable to both of them. He’d come to want her willingly, not under duress. Had he ever had her willingly?
He couldn’t even tell her he loved her. He’d said it once, on a kind of exhausted sigh after they’d made love. Even then, he’d equivocated: “I’m falling in love with you,” he’d said, and when she couldn’t respond, he’d regretted his impetuosity—his insanity, as it had seemed to him then—and never repeated it. On the night he’d left Lynton for Rye, she’d needed to hear those words as never before, and he couldn’t say them. He wasn’t falling in love any longer, he was passionately in love, which made the admission even riskier. She’d called him a coward that night, among other things. Was it true?
A dozen more hard questions came to him on the endless journey, but only one answer. The red clay hills and the long green valleys were bringing him home, and in a little while he would see her. Certainly they had differences. She wanted changes and he wanted everything to stay the same. “If you think this is about marriage, you’re mistaken,” she’d said, but he thought her angry disclaimer was disingenuous. She was a woman—of course she wanted marriage. Because he was a man (or was it because he was a Verlaine?) he saw marriage as the end of everything.
But they could work out their differences. This was a crisis, not a catastrophe, nothing they couldn’t overcome. They’d compromise, talk things over and make concessions, the way adults did. The first thing he would do was tell her he loved her. In a few days things would go back to normal, and she’d wonder what had distressed her so much. And then he would have everything.
***
He arrived home in a driving rain. No one greeted him in the deserted yard except the dog, who went into a fit of joyful barking when the carriage rolled through the archway. “What happened to you?” Sebastian exclaimed, trying to keep the wet, muddy puppy at arm’s length. “Been rolling in the pig sty, have you?” He wasn’t exaggerating; Dandy was a mess, filthy and neglected-looking, as if he’d been outside for days. “I’m telling your mother. Want to come with me?” Leaving Preest with the luggage, he sprinted through the downpour into the house.
He smiled at himself as he hurried down the dark stone corridor toward Rachel’s room. She probably wasn’t even there, and here he was, grinning and disheveled, eager as a schoolboy coming to court his first girl. At the closed door he paused to slick back his wet hair and s
traighten his necktie. But before he could knock, Dandy pawed at the door, and it swung open.
Empty. Damn.
“Rachel?” he called, in case she was in the bedroom. He wasn’t surprised when there was no answer; the suite had an echoing emptiness that told him no one was here. Disappointment felt like a light slap in the face, sobering him.
He stopped in the act of turning to go, aware suddenly that the sitting room really was empty—bare, without the objects and adornments he associated with Rachel; no flowers on the windowsill, no book open on her desk, no shawl across the back of her chair. His slow footsteps sounded too loud as he crossed to the bedroom and pushed that door wide open. The evidence was everywhere—pictures gone, bureau bare, wardrobe half empty—but it was the silence rushing in on him, heavy as a pall of smoke, that confirmed his worst dread. She’d left him.
He shouted a ferocious obscenity and kicked the door against the wall. In the violent draft of air, an envelope fluttered off the bedside table and slid across the floor. He snarled at it, toying with the idea of letting it stay there. He already knew what her bloody note would say; the only emotional defense she’d left him was to ignore it, ignore her, counter her rejection with a show of indifference. He kicked the door again, and went to pick up the envelope.
I didn’t lie to you. You asked me to stay, and I said I didn’t know what I would do. It’s still true, because I can’t think here. I’m going someplace. When I know what I should do, I’ll write to you.
Sebastian, I don’t blame you for anything, not anymore. In a way I’m glad for what you said to Reverend Morrell. It’s opened my eyes, and it’s helped me to understand that in so many ways I can’t keep ignoring, I’m still my parents’ child—middle-class and conventional, the last woman on earth you should have taken for a lover. I hope you think the exchange has been equal, that we have both . . . I don’t know what word you would use. “Enjoyed” each other, “taken pleasure” with each other. You’ve given me much more than pleasure, but I regret nothing, truly, not even the pain.
If you could’ve loved me, perhaps I wouldn’t have these scruples. Indeed, I think I would not. But that’s a singularly useless speculation now.
I mustn’t write any more, I wouldn’t make myself clear. Leaving you, the only thing that gives me pause is the thought that you might need me when you come home, because your father’s death may hurt you more than you think it will. But I can’t stay. I daresay you aren’t used to being the abandoned one. And—I think you will miss me. That’s a bittersweet consolation for me, I confess.
I love you. My task now, my new job, will be to stop loving you.
Rachel
Outside, the rain had slowed to a filthy brown drizzle. Ignoring the puddles, Sebastian ran toward the stables, with no plan and nothing in his head except a need for movement, industry, action. A girl was hurrying toward him; under her dripping bonnet, he recognized the piquant features of Sidony Timms.
“Where’s Holyoake?” he demanded, stopping in front of her.
“M’lord, he rode to the moot hall to see the hearing. About two hours past.”
“What hearing?”
Her eyes went wide. “Don’t you know?”
“Know what?” He took off his hat and smacked it against his thigh with impatience.
“Oh, sir, it’s Mrs. Wade—she was took up in Plymouth four days ago. They said she was trying to escape on a ship! They’ve had ’er in the Boro prison ever since, even though William—”
“Are you telling me she’s in gaol?”
She nodded fearfully. “Today was ’er trial. They brought ’er up from Plymouth in a van. William went along to see if there were anything he could do. He sent you a letter, m’lord! He tried to tell you—”
He was sprinting for the stables; he didn’t hear the rest. Panic and the need for haste made him clumsy. He spooked his fast stallion with rough handling, had to waste precious seconds calming him before he could get the bit in his mouth. Bareback, he cantered out of the stables like a madman.
In the lane, rain slashed his face and wind whistled in his ears. Over the roar of fear and the elements, he kept hearing the low, determined sound of Rachel’s voice, the night she’d confided to him her grimmest secret: “If they ever tried to lock me up again, Sebastian, I couldn’t bear it. I swear I would find a way to take my life!”
XX
DARKNESS. EVEN BEYOND her closed eyes, it was dark. It’s raining, Rachel remembered. And the remand cell had only one window, dirty and high, the rain slithering down it in snaky rivulets. At Dartmoor rain never touched her window, because it faced nothing but the prison’s innards, its gray, institutional guts. This familiar room, dark and small and smelling of fear, was a step up, then, because rain could slide down its one dirty window.
“Strum, Jonathan!”
She kept her eyes shut, didn’t look up to see the third-to-last prisoner stand and follow the constable out of the remand cell into the moot hall. But before the door closed behind them, she heard low voices and whispers, the hearing room in recess. Time for the gawkers to tell one another what they thought of the last prisoner’s sentence, or credibility, or prospects next month at the assize.
Would Burdy unlock the shackles on her wrists before he took her into the courtroom? There was a chance, but she didn’t count on it. Didn’t think about it. Didn’t open her eyes, because she couldn’t bear to see her own clenched hands lying across her lap, or the iron bands, rusty black, that covered her skin from the base of her thumbs to the middle of her forearms. And she didn’t move, because she hated the sound; even more than the tiresome pain of sharp iron on abraded skin, she hated the sound shackling chain made when hands moved restlessly, thoughtlessly. She didn’t move at all, sat still on the smooth wooden bench, shoulders hunched and eyes closed, and tried again to go back to the dark place.
She knew it well; she’d lived there for a long time, years ago. After she’d learned how to form the shell, the dark place had saved her. She’d learned how to be like an undersea mollusk, building the shell one slow grain of sand at a time, and when she finished she’d been flinty and impenetrable.
But she couldn’t do it this time. She’d lost the knack, couldn’t make herself blind and deaf anymore. Couldn’t make herself invisible. She’d changed.
Sebastian’s fault. How unkind of him to steal her best defense and leave her naked and soft-shelled, unprepared for her life’s newest outrage.
She tried to concentrate on the worst thing that could happen. They wouldn’t revoke her conditional release, not for only one month’s delinquency. At most they would send her back to Dartmoor for a month or two. More likely they’d return her to the Tavistock gaol for a few weeks, to teach her a lesson.
That was all. Weeks, probably; months, possibly. What was that to her? Nothing. The blink of an eye.
I must not be cynical. I must not lose hope.
Hope was the most exquisite torture, but she wanted to embrace it anyway. Whatever they did to her, she wanted to face it directly this time, head-on, wide awake. She wasn’t that bewildered girl anymore, reeling with shock as blow followed blow, horror upon horror. Everything had come true—she felt sick with fear because this room and this moment were the very essence of her nightmare—but still she couldn’t go back. The fear had numbed her before, but this time it infuriated her.
“Mummer, Lewis!”
Deliberately, she opened her eyes to watch the second-to-last prisoner shuffle out of the room with Constable Burdy. Then the door closed, and she was left alone with the matron. Mrs. Dill was her name; on the ride from Plymouth, she’d sat in the front of the police van, the “black maria,” with the driver and the male guard, while Rachel and one other prisoner, a boy no more than fifteen, had ridden in the back, hunched and handcuffed in their small, mean, separate stalls that smelled like urinals. Mrs. Dill had watched ov
er her for the last four days in the Boro prison at Plymouth, too. She had the same beefy body and perpetually angry face of a matron at Dartmoor whom Rachel remembered well, a woman who had delighted in inflicting pain on her charges in small, indiscernible ways—the tiny squeezing of the flesh of the upper arm or the back of the neck, the pulling of a pinch of hair out of the scalp. But aside from obscene language and some rough shoving, Mrs. Dill hadn’t abused her—yet. Rachel was fully conscious of her good fortune.
“Keep your eyes down, Wade. What’re you looking at?”
She mouthed, “Nothing,” and ducked her head. A second later her instantaneous, unthinking obedience appalled her. Had nothing changed, then, nothing at all? But she wasn’t afraid of this hulking, stupid woman; shed obeyed her out of habit, not cowardice.
To prove it, she lifted her head and said clearly, “Do you enjoy your work, Mrs. Dill?”
The woman stopped picking at a scab on her hand. “What?”
“Do you fancy ordering people about?”
“What?”
“Especially when they’re handcuffed and helpless. Do you like herding them into dark cells? Locking them in and then listening through a grate while they weep with despair?”
Mrs. Dill came away from the high window and stood over her. “Shut up, you. You shut up or you’ll be good and sorry.”
Too late; she couldn’t stop. She’d been a model prisoner for four days, but now the lid was off. She was boiling over. “What would make a woman take a job like yours? Tell me—I would like to know. Was it a lifelong ambition? Since childhood you’ve wanted to be a screw?”
Snarling, the matron made a grab for Rachel’s shackled wrists and jerked her to her feet. “Insolent! Shut your mouth, you hear me?” She gave the irons a hard, punishing yank, then pushed her back down on the bench. “Silence!”
But Rachel felt mad, reckless; she waited until the matron was back at the window before she asked in a voice shaking with strange emotion, “What exactly do you think distinguishes you from the crazy, violent wretches you watch over? The ones you enjoy ‘disciplining’ by shoving and beating, shouting at them as if they weren’t human at all—” She threw her hands up to shield her face, and the matron’s fist struck the sharp metal edge of her manacles.
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