by Lulu Taylor
Cressie went to the front door and opened it. Ralph stood on the doorstep, muffled by a huge black coat and a grey scarf at his neck. His complexion was almost as pallid as the scarf and he looked cold and unwell.
She gasped. ‘Ralph! What are you doing here?’
‘I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind. I know you haven’t wanted to return to us but I felt I had to see you if I possibly could . . .’ His eyes were pleading, almost desperate. ‘May I come in and talk to you? Just for a few minutes?’
‘I . . . I . . .’ She gaped at him. There had to be many reasons why he could not come in and why she shouldn’t talk to him, but at this minute, she couldn’t think of any. ‘Of course. Come in.’
She dropped the gloves on the hall table as she passed, and led the way into the drawing room, indicating one of the large, stiff sofas for him to sit on, but he ignored her and went to the fireplace, resting one hand on the marble surround as though he needed support.
‘Can I send for some tea?’ she asked, still coming to terms with the fact that Ralph was right here, in her house. And without Catherine. ‘Or whatever you’d like?’
He turned around to face her, and the emotion in his eyes almost made her gasp. ‘No. No! I don’t want anything. Only to speak to you.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘How . . . how are you?’
‘I’m in torment,’ he said bluntly. ‘It’s making me ill. It’s almost more than I can stand.’
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Her heart went out to him. He was still the same Ralph, tall, elegantly shabby, the lick of dark hair falling into his eyes; but she could tell that he was in a state of desperation.
‘You know what’s wrong.’ He looked at her, fixing her with his burning gaze. ‘Why have you left us? You never came back after that day when Catherine told you about my . . . about the colours. Why not?’
She gaped at him, answers cascading through her mind. How could she begin to tell him that she was afraid of her own feelings and of the way she was sure that Catherine knew exactly what they were? And if Catherine knew, then what did Ralph know? How much were they complicit in their strange seduction of her, and what did they want from her exactly? She didn’t know how to tell him that she was afraid they had created a trap for her between them, and that what scared her most was the idea that, in her deepest self, she longed to fall into it, to let the pair of them seduce her, use her, do what they wanted with her. When she was with them, she felt alive. The experience of being looked at so intensely by them both – after years of solitariness in her bedroom upstairs, when she’d felt utterly invisible – was intoxicating, giddying and addictive. But she feared what lay along that path because it involved things she knew were wrong: loving another woman’s husband, even if – perhaps – that woman gave her permission for it; indulging her physical longings that must, surely, be sinful.
So she had pushed it away and tried to be resolute, calling on all her strength to pull herself out of their honeyed web while she still could.
When she didn’t answer, Ralph bowed his head. ‘I’ve done something to make you hate me.’
She stepped closer to him. ‘No, you haven’t . . . and it isn’t the portrait either. That’s beautiful. But I can’t go back to the studio.’
‘Why not?’ He moved towards her. She caught a glimpse of them both in the mirror over the mantel behind Ralph. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes wide, while the dark hulk of Ralph’s overcoat blocked out the rest of the picture. The sight of the two of them together, contained within the mirror’s frame, excited her. It gave them a togetherness she had longed for, as though they were united inside their own picture.
She stared at him, revelling in being able, at last, to look without fear at his beautiful face, with its fine structure and fair skin and those incredible intense grey eyes. She’d had to steal glances at him for all these months, aware that Catherine’s gaze was continually on her. ‘I daren’t,’ she said in a low voice.
His face changed as he absorbed her words, his expression losing some of its desperation. ‘Why? What are you afraid of?’
Cressie looked away, unable to say it. She stared at the slippery silk damask on the sofa, following its patterns with her eyes even though she wasn’t really seeing it. The room, full of dark, heavy furniture, crammed with ornaments, stifled by the great fringed velvet curtains, was oppressive, and she felt breathless.
Ralph took another step towards her. ‘Is it the same thing I’m afraid of?’ he asked. He reached out and took her hand in his. His skin was cool and smooth, and where it touched her, she felt a tingling sensation as her flesh responded to his. His closeness was making her heart race and her head spin.
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. She couldn’t look at him at all now, only thinking of her hand in his, the shrinking distance between them, the way her body was beginning to tremble.
‘I’ve fallen in love with you, Cressida. You know it, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She sounded almost wretched, even though she’d longed to hear it. We’re done for now. It can’t be unsaid. I’m afraid of it. But we can’t keep denying it. She realised that she had known almost from the first moment they met that they were destined to love one another. The feelings that had grown between them in the studio were beyond their control. Her attempts to keep her distance and repress what she felt had been pointless, she saw that now. Besides, she was only one half of this mysterious, unlooked-for union; what could she do about Ralph and the power of his feelings? You know what you can do, her inner voice told her. You can refuse him. Send him away. Make him go back to where he belongs.
‘Cressida, do you . . . can you . . .’ Ralph’s voice was full of yearning. He paused and then laughed wryly. ‘I’m an idiot. How could you? Look at you – a beautiful girl, with all of this. And me – a poor artist with uncertain prospects. I’m nowhere near good enough for you. I’m an arrogant fool to think you might love me too.’
She gasped and looked up at him, her heart pierced by love for him as she saw the vulnerability in his eyes, that mixture of hope and fear she knew so well. ‘But it isn’t that!’ she cried out. ‘It would never be that!’
‘Then what is it?’ he asked breathlessly.
She stared at him, bewildered. How could he ask? She said it in one word. ‘Catherine.’
A kind of shock passed over his face and his brow wrinkled as if in confusion.
‘Your wife,’ she reminded him.
He put his hand to his head, screwing his eyes shut as if a great pain had seized. ‘Oh God,’ he said in a desperate voice. ‘Oh God.’
‘I know. It’s wrong of us,’ Cressie said, clutching his hand now. ‘That’s why I couldn’t come back to the studio. You and she . . . you are everything to each other, I can see that. I couldn’t bear to come between you, I knew what I felt was wrong. I was afraid that I’d spoil everything.’
‘No,’ Ralph said, still unable to look at her, his head bowed. ‘You don’t have to be afraid of that.’
‘But you love her and she loves you. You need her, your art needs her. She’s your eyes,’ Cressida said wretchedly.
Ralph took a deep breath and looked at her at last, his eyes desperately sad. ‘It’s not like that,’ he said in a hollow voice. ‘Our love isn’t like that at all.’
‘Like what?’
He paused then said, ‘Married love.’
She was confused. ‘But . . . what do you mean? You live together, you share a bed . . .’
‘That bed . . . Didn’t you notice when you were in our bedroom?’
She dropped her gaze, embarrassed, and nodded. ‘They’re two single beds. I thought . . . I don’t know . . . I suppose I thought you just liked that style. They’re close together, after all.’
‘That’s right. Close – but separate.’ He bit his lip, an expression of agony crossing his face. ‘You must believe me, Cressida. My relationship with Catherine is very complicated, perhaps even dangerous, but it isn’t any
thing like what I feel for you.’
She stared at him, a kind of wild joy growing in her chest as his words sank in. She knew as soon as he said it that it was true. What she’d seen between them had lacked some vital spark. It was missing the element that fired passion. ‘Please, believe me,’ he said again, yearning in his voice.
‘I do believe you,’ she said almost wonderingly. His heart wasn’t Catherine’s at all, but only hers. But – the joy faltered a little – that doesn’t change the fact that he’s married, even if he doesn’t love his wife.
Before she could think anything more, Ralph pulled her into his arms, enveloping her in the great black coat, wrapping her close to him. ‘Cressida,’ he said in a voice full of love and longing. ‘You are my guiding star, my light. I love you. I can’t help myself.’ His fingers were under her chin, tilting her face up to his, and then his lips were on hers. The sensation was so giddyingly sublime, as though she was falling down a sweet dark tunnel lined with stars. Everything about him intoxicated her and as he coaxed her mouth open to kiss her properly, she wondered how she could ever leave his arms, or surrender this moment to the past.
Too soon, he pulled away to gaze down into her face. ‘My Cressida,’ he said tenderly. ‘What have you done to me?’
She smiled back, knowing that the kiss had left her eyes shining with joy, and wanting to taste his lips again and again and again. ‘What happens now?’ she asked. She felt a reckless boldness growing in her. We’ve done it now. How can we ever go back? This is just what I was afraid of . . .
Ralph looked at his watch. ‘My darling, I have to go. I told Catherine I was buying brushes. She’ll be waiting for me at the Underground station.’ He smiled at her, and kissed her lightly again. ‘You don’t know how happy you’ve made me. You will see me again, won’t you? I can live if I know that.’
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘but how?’
He pulled away from her reluctantly, lifting her hand to his mouth for another kiss. ‘I’ll think of something.’
‘I can’t go back to the studio,’ she said. ‘Don’t ask that.’
‘Of course not. That would be madness.’ He released her hand and walked to the door. ‘I’ll write to you. We’ll find a way.’ He smiled at her again, the old enchanting Ralph, the pain gone from his face. ‘I love you. Never forget it.’
‘Goodbye,’ she whispered, hating to lose sight of him. A moment later, she heard the heavy front door close and he was gone.
Chapter Seventeen
Emily woke to a strange scratching sound, almost like the patter of light rain. Bright moonlight came through the chink in the curtains. She knew it wasn’t raining but she didn’t feel afraid as she lay in her bed, coming to wakefulness, wondering about the noise she could hear. It was coming from directly above her, in the attic. She knew that there were attics, no doubt where the servants used to sleep, but she hadn’t yet been up there. A small door next to Joe’s room had a narrow staircase behind it that led up there, but she hadn’t climbed it.
Getting out of bed, she put on her slippers and picked up the torch she kept by her bedside in case of a power cut. She went to the door to the attic and opened it, shining her torch up the dusty bare staircase. Would there be electricity up there? She looked for a switch but couldn’t see one, so she climbed up anyway. It seemed to be fairly light at the top and as she got there, she saw that the moonlight was streaming in through the little dormer windows. There were three of them, one here on the central landing, and one for each of the attic’s rooms that led off on either side.
She opened the door to one of them. It was illuminated by the moonlight that reflected off the whitewashed walls and shone on the dusty boards. It was a simple room, the sloping ceilings giving barely enough space to stand upright, and there was a tiny fireplace at the far end. A maid or the cook must have slept here once.
Shutting the door, she went to the other one and pushed it open too, expecting to see the same thing, but this room was different. The floor was covered by small round shapes glistening in the chilly light spilling through the little window.
What are they? she wondered. Then she realised. The moonlight had leached them of colour. Apples. Dozens of them. They must have been stored up here where it’s dry.
She stared at them for a moment, and then heard a scratch and a scuttle and saw a tiny black shape whisk under the wainscot, a slender tail flicking after it.
Mice. Of course. This bounty must provide them with a good source of food all winter. I wonder why no one took them away when they were emptying the house. She noticed a crate in the corner. There’s something else they left behind. Maybe they forgot to check this attic. She advanced into the room, treading carefully to avoid the apples. The crate was pushed against the far wall and she had to bend under the sloping eaves to reach it, but when she got there she found the top was nailed down and she couldn’t lift it.
Mysterious, she thought. She wondered briefly if she ought to tell James about the crate, and give it to him without opening it. I’m too curious. There are so few clues here about the past. I can’t resist it. I’ll come back with my hammer and open it.
She went nimbly back through the field of apples and left them to the mice.
James called in the following morning with a delivery of milk, eggs and freshly baked bread. ‘With my mother’s compliments,’ he said. ‘We thought you might be getting a bit low. Do you know where the village shop is?’
‘Not yet,’ Emily said. ‘Thank you so much for this.’ She took the basket of food gratefully. ‘I’ve just got to the end of my stores and was wondering where’s best to go for supplies.’
‘Your biggest supermarkets are in Carlisle but you shouldn’t need to go all that way. There’re plenty of shops over in the next village and you can arrange deliveries if you want them. We’ll sell you eggs.’ James smiled at her. ‘You’ll get the hang of it. There’s plenty to find out. You probably don’t even know the extent of your property yet.’
‘No, I don’t.’ There had been a plan from the solicitors to show the boundaries, but they hadn’t meant much to Emily without being able to see the place. She had the vague idea that there was more beyond just the garden but she wasn’t sure how much.
James pointed towards the hills beyond the house. ‘You’ve got the garden, orchard and the paddock beyond in that direction.’ He moved his arm round towards the road. ‘The fields over that side and . . . see that patch of woodland? Keeper’s Cottage is there. That’s yours, up to the road. The rest is bordered in by hedges along the roadside, and the stone wall.’
‘Keeper’s Cottage?’ Emily echoed. She had seen something on the plans, now she thought of it, but had assumed it was an outbuilding of some sort. ‘Another house?’
‘House might be stretching it,’ James said with a smile. ‘It’s just about habitable. Two rooms downstairs, two up, and an outside lavvy. But it’s got electricity and water. I can’t think when someone last lived there. I’ll take you over there sometime if you like.’
‘Is there a key?’
‘It’ll be under the flower pot by the door, I expect, if it’s not in your house. Check the dresser drawer.’ James climbed back into the muddy Land Rover. ‘Right, I’m off. I’ve got lambs to attend to.’
The Land Rover roared off and Emily headed back to the house with her spoils.
The children were fizzing with excitement to see Tom again. As he got off the train, his old backpack slung over one shoulder, they both shrieked and ran along the platform to greet him. Emily was glad to see him too.
Perhaps I’ve become a bit too hermit-like for my own good, she thought, smiling broadly as she went to meet him. The two children were in his arms, smothering him in kisses. It’ll do me good to see Tom. And anyway, I want to show him the house.
‘How was the journey?’ she asked as they drove back through Carlisle. The boot was full of supplies now from the big supermarket shop she’d done before meeting the train.
/> ‘Rather amazing. The scenery is spectacular, isn’t it? I don’t know this part of the world. Looking out of the window was breathtaking.’
‘I know,’ Emily said proudly, as though she’d discovered it herself and no one else had ever known it was here. ‘And it’s just an hour to the Lake District. The children and I will explore that at some point; I’ve always wanted to.’
He looked over at her keenly, his sharp blue eyes missing nothing about her. ‘You look better,’ he pronounced. ‘More like your old self.’
She smiled, looking over at him and then back at the road. From the stereo, a Winnie-the-Pooh story played, the children listening, absorbed. ‘I know. I feel like I’m beginning to get better here.’
‘I don’t mean like Emily before the accident. I mean Emily from a long time back. From before Will.’
She negotiated a big roundabout and then said brightly, ‘I suppose that’s a good thing.’
‘Yes,’ Tom replied. ‘A very good thing.’
The children wanted to show their uncle around the new house so he was led by the hand at a snail’s pace while they showed him everything they’d discovered about the new place. Emily was quite astonished to see how many hidey holes they’d found, and what they already knew about the house.
‘This is Samuel Whisker’s secret staircase,’ Carrie announced solemnly, pointing out what was undoubtedly a mouse hole by the stairs.
‘Oh dear, it is, I think,’ Emily said, laughing. ‘We’ve definitely got mice. I heard them in the roof and then saw one in the attic.’
‘No reason why you can’t all exist together, if they’re not doing any harm,’ Tom said with a shrug.
She wrinkled her nose. ‘But not in the kitchen.’
‘Maybe not there. But don’t put out those horrible traps that squash them, will you? Do something kind.’ He fixed her with his penetrating blue gaze again. ‘I think we all need a bit more kindness in the world.’
‘You’re right. Besides, I don’t want to the children to find poor little mashed mice in the mornings. Shall we go upstairs? I’ll show you your room.’