House in the Hills

by House in the Hills (retail) (epub)

  She sat there staring into space, wondering if there was some way she could get out of this. At around six o’clock he came for her.

  ‘We’re expected to dine – as the happily married couple,’ he said, his hair slickly oiled back, a bemused look in those dancing eyes. ‘And this is no longer your cabin – not at night anyway.’

  His tone was intimidating, as though he wanted her to feel apprehensive about their first night. She shook her head in an effort to dislodge her disquiet. Her head ached but was clearing.

  She vowed to drink some more. She wanted oblivion. She wanted not to know what would happen next.

  The steward offered her wine with her meal. She drank white with the fish course, red with the meat and champagne with the dessert and even port with the cheese course. Not that she ate very much. The wine would dull her senses; lying with her husband would pass in a rushed blur – at least that’s what she hoped.

  The time she was dreading eventually came. Robert got to his feet and made his excuses. More toasts were drunk to the ‘happy couple’.

  ‘Come, my darling,’ said Robert, his pupils somewhat diminished, black dots in a hot and florid face, a face that she’d once considered calm and kindly. He took hold of her hand.

  She felt the sweatiness of his palm through her thin cotton glove. His arm encircled her waist once they were outside the door, his fingers curving upwards over her ribcage and touching her breast.

  ‘Everything is ready for us,’ he murmured, his breath hot and moist against her ear lobe. ‘Tonight I take you. It may hurt a little, but it has to be done. You may want to scream, but as the walls of this vessel are rather thin, I will have to place my hand over your mouth to stifle the noise. But hey ho,’ he said, straightening. ‘I shall enjoy it nonetheless.’

  Dizzy with drink, Catherine looked at him, studying the flushed countenance, the sweated brow and the incredible excitement burning in his eyes. Robert Arthur Freeman was convinced he’d got himself a virgin bride. Well, did she have news for him!

  The wine might have blurred her senses, but she was still astute enough to know that there were two ways she could play this. Tell him the truth, or act the part of the untouched maiden.

  Heart pounding and a small man with a hammer beating at the inside of her skull, she toppled against him.

  ‘Now come along, young lady. Behave yourself or Daddy will have to smack your bottom.’

  He said it in a soothing, silly voice, just as if he were indeed speaking to a child.

  Perhaps if she’d been more sober she would have coped better; understood better. As it was, she wanted to say to him that he was speaking nonsense and that she was a grown woman – nineteen was old enough to be considered a woman. As a woman she knew what had to come next. It was just a case of what form it would take.

  The truth of the matter was that she’d fully expected Robert to rip off her clothes and ravish her. Instead he gently unbuttoned her cream-coloured dress and the wide peach-coloured sash fastened around her hips. The whole ensemble fell on to her two-tone shoes. Next he took off her jewellery, her earrings, her necklace, her bracelet and her wristwatch. After laying everything to one side, he pressed her down into a chair and to her amazement began to wipe at her make-up with a damp flannel – not that she wore that much anyway.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ she said, attempting to take the flannel.

  ‘No,’ he said, smacking her hand away. ‘I’ll do it. And don’t ever wear any face paint again. Daddy doesn’t like it.’

  The flannel was cool upon her heated face.

  ‘My head,’ she said, opening her eyes.

  ‘Never mind, my darling,’ said Robert, flattening the flannel and laying it across her forehead. ‘You hold that there. I’ll brush your hair and then we’ll get you undressed and into bed.’

  The cool wetness and the gentle brushing of her hair helped her aching head. Robert Arthur Freeman was proving less predictable than she’d thought. Suddenly she wasn’t dreading going to bed with him. On the contrary, she was beginning to look forward to cuddling up to his worthwhile physique. As for the other thing; well, purely out of consideration, tonight he might leave her alone. Even so, she reasoned that once the drink had worn off, he would be gentler taking her than she’d presumed. Or was she forgetting something? What was that he’d said about stifling her screams? She closed her eyes and the room spun again. She couldn’t remember. She just couldn’t remember.

  ‘Come along,’ he said, his fingers curving around her wrist. ‘Let’s get you to bed.

  He spoke softly yet urgently in a way that reminded her of Aunt Lopa. She’d come home once from the convent school with a fever and her aunt had insisted she go straight to bed. She’d felt too weak to undress herself, so Aunt Lopa had helped her. Robert was just like that. But she didn’t care. Even when he turned her to face away from him and stripped off her underwear, she didn’t try to cover herself. After all, it was only her bottom showing anyway. It didn’t occur to her that most men would keep her facing the front so they could drink in the sight of her breasts and the deep ‘v’ of pubic hair between her thighs. Nothing really made much sense until later.

  ‘Let’s get you into your nightdress,’ he said.

  Holding her arms up, she felt the freshness of white cotton fall over her. The nightgown was high-necked and fell to her ankles. It had long sleeves and a stitched bodice that flattened her chest.

  He turned her back round to face him.

  ‘There. My little girl,’ he said, his eyes shining and a slimy wetness on his lips.

  Catherine rubbed at her eyes as she tried to make sense of what was happening here. Where was the beautiful peignoir Sanchia had bought for her? She remembered it being black and pink, riotously enticing. She’d hated it, but this shapeless cotton thing made her uneasy. It was more suited to a child than a wife.

  She was aware of him leading her to the bed, drawing back the sheets and plumping up the pillows.

  ‘There you are. Now lay down on your stomach. It will be better that way.’

  ‘Hmmm!’ she murmured, not caring how she lay down as long as it did her aching head some good. The moment her head hit the pillow, she closed her eyes. A trio of lights whirled around behind her closed lids. The bed seemed to be moving, spinning on its iron legs. But she would not, could not, open her eyes. She wanted sleep. She wanted this dizziness to be gone. Fresh air would be good. She thought about asking Robert to open the porthole, but her lips were half buried in the pillow. Besides, she couldn’t possibly find the energy to lift her head.

  The cool air came anyway. She could feel it on her bottom and the backs of her legs. She murmured a vague thank-you.

  She heard Robert say something and felt pillows being forced beneath her thighs. Her bottom rose higher than her shoulders and felt incredibly cooled, unfettered by nightdress or bedclothes. Her knees dug into the mattress as the front of Robert’s thighs brushed against the back of hers.

  She didn’t care what he was doing. All she wanted to do was sleep, but her sleep was vague and disturbing. She felt the weight of his body, his hand dividing her legs before he burrowed into her.

  ‘There, there, there. This is what naughty girls deserve.’

  It made no sense. Not then. Her eyelids were heavy. She fell asleep.

  It wasn’t until the morning that she tried to analyse exactly what had happened, though her head was throbbing so nothing made much sense.

  She opened her eyes and saw him looking at her. His eyes were unblinking, like flecked glass in a carved face.

  ‘Before breakfast comes,’ Robert said seeming to come to a sudden decision. He reached across, drawing her near, then turning her over on to her stomach.

  ‘No,’ she said, as he tried to push the pillows beneath her hips. ‘That isn’t how I want it.’ She swung her legs out of bed and saw she was still wearing the hideous cotton gown.

  ‘What is this?’ she said, holding the voluminous garment out to eith
er side of her.

  Robert only gave the nightdress a cursory glance as though he were searching for something. Apparently he didn’t find it, so that same glance settled on the bedcovers. He inspected the sheet. He frowned. ‘No blood?’

  Catherine stared at him. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re a young girl. A virgin.’ He sounded concerned, his eyes taking on a darkness that she’d never seen there before.

  Suddenly everything came together. Catherine began to laugh. ‘So that’s the reason for this charade!’

  Robert swung his legs out of his side of the bed. He was naked, his hair was plastered to his head and his mouth was bowed with disappointment. She tried to ignore his body, the fair skin, the freckled chest and the thin layer of pubic hair. The sight of it failed to arouse her. With a pang of regretful memory, she recalled the body of her passionate priest.

  His expression darkened further. ‘Why didn’t you scream?’

  ‘I’m not a blushing bride,’ she said, her eyes blazing.

  ‘You’ve had other men?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She was taken aback when his face contorted with anger.

  Two strides and he’d crossed the cabin floor. Her ears rang as he slapped one side of her face then the other.

  ‘You are never to mention them again. Is that clear?’

  She felt the heat of her face as she covered both cheeks with her hands. She stared, unable to find her voice.

  His smile was dangerous. He took hold of her chin. ‘Yes. You will forget they ever existed. You will turn back the clock and become the untouched little girl you were before they led you astray.’

  She wanted to say that she’d been driven by passion as much as they had been; that she was her mother’s daughter, and didn’t he know that? But some womanly instinct told her to hold her tongue. The man who had captured her imagination was no longer affable and good-natured. His true character was emerging and it sickened her.

  The only redeeming feature that kept her spirits up was the thought of living close to her father, learning his ways – his weaknesses. Now it seemed she would have to be in earnest learning the further weaknesses of her husband. Indolence, she decided, would be his downfall. And she’d be there to take full advantage of it.

  Thirty

  Because of its size, the ship docked at the Bristol Channel port of Avonmouth, which was more capable of taking bigger ships than the city docks; the latter could only be reached by navigating the twisting, tidal river.

  As barrels of wine were swung over the side on to waiting barges, their personal luggage was loaded into a taxi with dark-blue paintwork and large brass headlamps. Robert was making an effort to supervise the operation, though only in a desultory fashion, waving his walking stick between taking languorous draws on his cigar.

  Catherine proceeded down the gangway and on to the shore where she proceeded to survey the broad quay for sight of a chauffeur-driven car. Sanchia had left the ship early to stay at a hotel in the city for a few nights before reboarding the ship back to Porto.

  There had been many times when Catherine had felt alone in her life, but never more so than she did now. At the same time she felt she had aged on this short voyage and gained greater insight into humanity and especially into men. She blamed herself for the situation she found herself in; she’d been naïve, silly. But never again, she promised herself. Never, ever again.

  Stiffened by her new resolve, she tried not to dwell on the more intimate details of her marriage to Robert Arthur Freeman.

  ‘Catherine!’

  Robert took hold her elbow and guided her towards the same taxi that was being loaded with their luggage including Aunt Lopa’s iron-bound box. Most of the boxes and bags had been tied on to the rear of the vehicle, but some were piled up beside the driver.

  ‘There’s not much more room, sir,’ said the taxi driver. ‘Would you and the missus like to go in another taxi?’

  Robert looked astounded. ‘Certainly not! Unless one fare covers both taxis.’

  ‘I can’t do that, sir,’ said the whiskered man, his greatcoat straining across his broad belly, his stout legs clothed in oilskin gaiters. ‘If you don’t mind that box there sitting on the back seat with you, that would take care of all your luggage.’ He indicated the stout iron-bound box.

  ‘That?’ said Robert.

  Judging by the look on his face, he would have been satisfied to see the box thrown into the river.

  ‘It’s coming with us,’ said Catherine firmly, addressing the taxi driver. ‘Put it on the back seat. We can manage.’

  Robert shrugged as though he didn’t care one way or another. While they waited he took a sip from a silver hip flask and shrugged his shoulders. ‘As you wish. You’ll be the one squashed in the middle, not me.’

  Robert, she’d learned, had a very casual attitude to most things. The faraway look she’d often seen in his eyes had more to do with his imbibing of alcoholic spirits than the possession of a poetic spirit. His carefree attitude was more akin to carelessness, an indifference to anyone’s feelings but his own.

  It was a tight squeeze travelling along while squashed between the wooden coffer and her husband, and unpleasant in more ways than one.

  ‘This is very cosy,’ he said, his hand resting on her knee, his fingers moving like a spider’s legs, gathering up her hem.

  Catherine blushed scarlet. ‘Stop it,’ she hissed, her eyes flashing between him and the back of the driver’s head.

  She winced as Robert gripped her knee and glanced tellingly at the driver. ‘He’s on the other side of the glass. He can’t hear,’ said Robert.

  ‘I don’t care,’ she muttered, using her own fingers to try and dislodge his hand.

  In response, Robert gripped her knee even more tightly. ‘You’re my wife. I can do as I please and that unremarkable little man up front will say and do nothing. He’s just a servant. Like a horse is a servant.’

  Catherine could not believe what she was hearing. Even her fingers stayed still, locked over those of the man she had married.

  ‘If you do not remove your hand and allow me to continue, I will slap your face here and now in public.’

  Catherine weighed up in her mind all that she knew about Robert Arthur Freeman. What did she know that would give her some form of defence against him? Whose opinion did he fear above all others? The answer came in a flash.

  She steeled her expression and lowered her voice. ‘If you do not desist instantly, I will inform my father in public of what an uncouth lout you are!’

  She saw his eyes flicker, a sudden fear flash through them. The fingernails digging into her knee loosened and then retreated. In that single moment Robert Arthur Freeman had told her more about himself than he had ever put into words. He both feared and admired men who were more powerful and wealthier than he was. She’d also seen something else in that petulant, jealous expression, the reason above all else that he had married her. He wanted to be like her father. He wanted to be powerful. Although inexperienced in matters of business, she was and always had been an astute judge of character.

  Her husband would never be as successful as her father or any man like him.

  The rest of the journey passed in comparative comfort, though she edged herself closer to Aunt Lopa’s box than Robert. The only time he spoke to her was to ask what was in the box. To sit beside something familiar was strangely comforting, inanimate though that object might be.

  ‘Family mementoes,’ she replied, and returned her dark gaze to the view from the window. Now she had found Robert’s Achilles heel she contented herself with thoughts of the grand house he had boasted of. At least she would have something reminiscent of Castile Villanova, that beautiful house in Porto.

  In reality, it was not so.

  Cornwallis House overlooked St Michael’s Hill, a long sweep of eighteenth-century houses curving down to the main road. Catherine eyed the mix of ginger clay and blue-slate roofs with glum resignation; none of th
em glowed with borrowed sunlight like they had in Portugal. The sky was only a few shades lighter than the rooftops, clouds swirling like grey porridge against a pewter palate.

  At a distance Cornwallis House took her breath away. Four Palladian pillars supported a central pediment. Lofty windows, each with their own pediment, were set at equal intervals along each floor level. They entered through iron gates that looked as though they hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years. Long grass whispered like bent silk beneath clusters of oak, ash and stately elm.

  Halfway up the drive, a flash of colour to her right caught her eye. A posse of sunburned faces stared in their direction. They were standing in front of three brightly coloured gypsy caravans. Piebald and skewbald horses were tethered close by and a hoard of scruffy children were playing in the dirt.

  Robert noticed her looking. ‘Ah! So you’ve seen our tame gypsies. Their animals keep the grass down and they pay me for being here.’

  ‘Strange,’ she murmured. Patient, knowledgeable men tended the gardens at Castile Villanova, nipping buds, planting and weeding, seeding and hoeing in the rich, dark earth.

  Catherine got out of the taxi to get a better look at the frontage of the house itself. She was vaguely aware that figures of various sizes had filed out of the front door and were waiting to greet them. But for the moment, her gaze fixed on the house, the house she had visualized as imposing, elegant and awaiting the attention of an interested woman.

  Once upon a time the building must have been quite splendid. Now fallen into neglect, there were patches where the original stucco had fallen from the pillars. The same had happened on the upper floor, where water incursion had caused bricks to be exposed and weeds to flourish.

  On closer inspection, she saw that panes were missing from windows, catches were broken, the casements leaning out at odd angles. Paint flaked from frames and some broken panes had been boarded up rather than replaced. An air of neglect lay over everything.