Dovecote

by Oleson, Anne Britting;

  Gwynn glared. “I dropped the bottle. The whole damn cellar smells like a distillery now.”

  “And not a very good one.” Mary took her coat through to the tree in the entryway, then returned. “How on earth did you manage to get yourself stuck like that?”

  Gwynn yawned, stretched, put her pounding head in her hands. Her shoulders and hips ached as well. Sleeping on a staircase was not anything she wanted to do again in a hurry. “I don’t know. The door swung shut. The latch must have fallen.”

  Mary frowned fiercely. “That’s never happened to me, not in all the years I’ve worked here.” The kettle clicked off, and she excused herself for a moment. Gwynn could hear her fixing the tea in the pot, and then she heard the sound of the cellar door. Open. She waited for the creak as it swung shut. There was none. Mary said something unintelligible, and then Gwynn heard her close and open the door again.

  After a few moments, Mary reappeared, carrying the tea tray, still frowning. She set the tray on the low table and straightened.

  “I can’t get it to shut by itself,” she said peevishly, as though blaming the door for its recalcitrance. “I don’t know how you managed it. And what happened to the back door?”

  Leaving the blanket, Gwynn pushed past Mary on her way to the kitchen and the cellar. She pulled the door open and released it, it stayed put. Just as it had the previous night, she recalled. It did not swing. It did not close. She looked at Mary, puzzled.

  “It shut on me,” she protested. “I was at the bottom of the stairs, fetching the bottle. It shut on me.”

  “And locked,” Mary reminded her with a raised eyebrow. “It shut and locked. From this side. All by itself.”

  They stared at each other.

  “Never mind,” Gwynn said at last, giving up. “I’m going to take a bath. And then I’m going to bed. In a real bed. Because I don’t want to deal with this.”

  “I’ll call Colin about the glass.”

  Gwynn didn’t reply.

  34

  “COME TO DINNER,” she said, when Colin answered his phone. It was Sunday again, and the disappointment had subsided. She didn’t think he’d have a gig on Sunday.

  There was a long pause.

  “Thank God,” he said finally. Then, “You’re sure?”

  “I’m not sure of anything,” she said. “But come anyway. Seven.”

  SHE SCRUBBED EVERY inch of her skin in the tub while the beef was roasting. She dressed carefully in a red dress and heels, choosing sparkling earrings and a pendant that threw fire when she moved. A confidence move. Ex-wives be damned. All of it be damned. She hoped that, by dressing for the evening—by dressing for seduction—she might overcome the last of her confusion and uncertainty of the last week. A headache hung like anxiety behind her eyes, however, and she wished she hadn’t opened the bottle of wine so early in the evening.

  The cottage was redolent of roast and duxelles. She took one last look in the mirror, hoping her feverish eyes might pass, in Colin’s inspection, for excitement. The knock came on the door below, and she drew the curtain aside despite herself, to look down onto the tiny terrace. In the darkness the figure below was impossible to make out. She looked quickly to the street for a glimpse of Colin’s work truck, and, seeing it, let the curtain fall in relief.

  It took a moment to get the door open, fumbling with the lock as Gwynn did with her nervous hands. She only opened it a crack, just to be sure, and feeling stupid even as she peered out. Colin was back to studying the front of The Stolen Child; he turned slowly, tipping his head to the side. His gaze lingered at her hand on the lock, but he said nothing.

  She let him in, then snapped the lock again when she closed the door. Colin watched her, wordless, waiting. Gwynn bit her lip, slowly raising her eyes to meet his clear gray gaze. She couldn’t answer the question she saw there; she pretended not to see it at all.

  “I’m sorry,” she said instead. “Bear with me.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry, too.”

  They stood awkwardly. Gwynn dropped her eyes.

  “You’re lovely,” he said at last.

  Gwynn swallowed.

  Colin reached out his arms, and after a moment she moved into them, pressing her face into his tweed jacket, breathing the scent of him, listening to the steady sound of his heart. She was surprised to realize how much she had missed the touch, the smell, the sound.

  “When you’re ready,” he said, “If you’re ready—I’d really like to kiss you hello.”

  SHE BROUGHT HIM a glass of wine. He stood in the dining room, slowly and carefully looking at the drawings she had laid out for him with some trepidation. Before he could say anything, she returned to the kitchen to plate the dinner.

  “Can I help?” he called after her.

  “No, no, it’s fine,” she said quickly.

  Colin followed her into the kitchen, pushed the curtain aside, and examined the newly glazed glass in the door. “Did you ever find out what happened here?” he asked, turning to her.

  Gwynn looked away. “An—accident. It wasn’t any big deal.”

  He kept his eyes on her face for a long uncomfortable moment.

  She willed herself not to spill the whole story to him.

  He let the curtain drop. “I wish—” he began, but then shook his head.

  35

  UPSTAIRS, DINNER EATEN, dishes washed and carefully stacked on the sideboard to dry, it was Gwynn who took the lead. In her red heels, she was closer to Colin’s height, and she leaned into him, biting at his lips, sliding her hands beneath his tweed jacket, along the curve of his back to his hips. He let her, opening his mouth against hers, whispering her name as she pulled him to her. She reached up and pushed his jacket from his shoulders, then unbuttoned his shirt and ran her hands through the curling dark hair of his chest.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “Welcome,” she whispered against his mouth, “to my cottage.”

  IN THE NIGHT she dreamed. She saw her great-aunt Gwynn from across the room, but this was the nineteen-year-old Gwynn from the photographs in the scrapbook, and the room—she looked around—was the public bar at The Stolen Child. The brickwork and the beams were the same, as was the great fireplace at the far end of the room. The tables were different, the chairs seated with worn red upholstery. Polished brasses hung against the walls. Gwynn was speaking to a stocky man who turned, his eyes blazing darkly. Tommy Chelton.

  Don’t, she wanted to shout.

  Then suddenly she was close to Tommy, so close—and she was the nineteen-year-old Gwynn; she was her great-aunt. She looked down at her hands, then over at the spotless mirror behind the back-bar at her curling red hair. She turned back to Tommy Chelton, who was eyeing her in a way that made her uncomfortable, but she nodded as he said, “I have some birds. Up back of the house. There’s a dovecote. Come up and have a look sometime.”

  She calculated quickly. Martin’s last letter told her he’d be back home on leave come Christmas. “Can we go now? Can I see them? I’d really love to get a bird for Martin. It would mean so much to him. Maybe you can help me choose one—if you’d sell me one?” She stumbled over her words in her excitement.

  Something had closed down in Tommy’s expression at the mention of Martin’s name, but she barely registered it.

  “We can go up now,” he said. His voice had grown louder cutting across the late afternoon chatter of the pub. He leaned a bit closer. “If that’s what you want.”

  Then he turned away, pushing through the crowds to the door. Gwynn had to hurry to follow him outside into Eyewell Lane; Tommy crossed without looking either way for traffic and started up the path past Dove Cottage. There was a gate in the stone wall, and he left it open for her without even glancing back. Inside was the garden, grass scuffed, flower borders empty save for scraps of dead plants Gwynn didn’t recognize. Tommy had passed through the rear gate, but now he waited.

  She was breathless, hurrying after him, and now she leaned a
hand against the mossy stone, the other to her breast as she steadied her breathing.

  “Up there?” she asked.

  “They’re up here,” he said, indicating the wood. She stepped through the gate, and he dragged it shut behind them. Then he turned and led the way up the incline into the trees, as though indifferent: she could follow him or not.

  She looked around nervously. She didn’t like it, or him. From a distance, though, she could hear the soft cooing of the doves, and she thought of Martin’s last letter, where he wrote about racing birds, and she so wanted to find one for him. For a gift. A surprise. He would come home on leave, and she would say listen—remember that story you wrote to me about you and your brother racing pigeons? She would hand him the caged bird, and he would set it free: they would both watch it soar into the cloudless blue sky above the estuary.

  Gwynn could barely see Tommy’s back through the trees: he was not waiting. She threw a glance over her shoulder at the closed gate. She really didn’t want to follow him into the wood, but the thought of the bird, the thought of Martin’s face when he saw her gift—

  Quickly she pushed her uneasiness aside and hurried after him. Her footsteps startled a rabbit from the underbrush, and after freezing for a moment, it fled along a path only it could see. The cooing was growing louder, and she quickened her pace.

  The dovecote loomed suddenly in its clearing. Tommy was nowhere in sight. The door was open, though, and she ducked her head to enter the dimness, where she was suddenly surrounded by the sounds and smells of the birds. After a moment her eyes grew accustomed, and she could make out the boxes lining the walls, the bright eyes peering out at her. She didn’t see Tommy, though, did not know where he was until he stepped close behind her and slid a hand up the inside of her bare arm.

  Gwynn jerked away quickly. “The bird. Martin—”

  He grabbed her wrist, pulled her around, held her against his body, twisting her arm behind her back until it hurt. “Not Martin. Me.” He pressed his mouth to hers, forcing her lips apart. Gwynn wrenched her head away. She had been wrong, wrong to follow him. She didn’t like him, and now she was frightened and angry. With her free hand she slapped him, hard.

  “How dare you?” she spat. Then she twisted away from him and dashed toward the door.

  Tommy was there before her; he reached past and slammed it shut, his arm over her shoulder, pinning her to the wood when she turned.

  “Let me go,” she cried, her panic rising.

  In the dimness she saw his teeth as he smiled. With his free hand he cupped her breast and squeezed through the cloth of her dress. Then he bent his head and kissed the pulse at the base of her throat.

  “Don’t, Tommy,” she said. She felt the sobs rising, tried frantically to push him away. “Let me go. I won’t tell. I won’t say anything. I swear I won’t say anything.”

  “Nothing to say,” he said against the skin of her neck. “You followed me up here. Everyone saw you. They saw you chase me up here. I was walking away. You followed me, Gwynn. Because it’s not Martin you want, and now everyone in the village knows. It’s me.”

  “No,” she cried out, pushing at his chest. “No, Tommy. Don’t. Please don’t do this.”

  Once again she freed herself, but she hadn’t gone far before he grabbed her and threw her to the ground as easily he might a rag doll. Then he was on her, his knee between her legs, his hand under her skirt, scrabbling at her panties. Gwynn screamed out for help.

  “No one can hear you up here,” Tommy said. Then he thrust inside of her, and she felt a pain and tearing unlike anything she’d ever felt before.

  WHEN HE WAS done, he stood, leaving her sobbing at his feet. He took out a handkerchief and wiped himself, then tossed it down to her before buttoning up his trousers.

  “Clean yourself up,” he said.

  Gwynn could not speak. The pain was unendurable. There was dirt in her dress, dirt in her hair, God help her, even dirt in her mouth. The birds had fallen silent.

  Tommy opened the door. Light fell across her legs, her torn underwear. He looked down at her with his black pits of eyes.

  “Martin will kill you when I tell him,” she sobbed.

  “You won’t tell him. He wouldn’t believe you anyway. No one will believe you.” And hideously, Tommy Chelton smiled at her. “You’re mine now, Gwynn. Mine.”

  SHE FELT HIS hands first, then his weight.

  It was happening again.

  Again.

  She felt the panic rise. She was blinded by it. She threw up her hands to ward him off, to push him away. Her resistance had been futile before, but she couldn’t bear it, she couldn’t bear it again, she couldn’t bear him again. The scream rose in her throat—she knew no one could hear her—he had told her, he had laughed. But she couldn’t hold it in. She felt his lips at her jaw and opened her mouth and the animal sound rushed out.

  “Gwynn—”

  The voice at her ear was surprised, shocked. The weight on her body shifted, but the arms stayed, the hold tightening.

  “Gwynn, hush. Hush. It’s all right. It’s all right.”

  But it wasn’t all right. She squirmed and twisted, trying desperately to pull away from the arms that held her captive. She cried out again, pushing, scratching. “No—no! Let me go! Let me go!”

  Suddenly she was free. She pulled away, leapt from the bed, and found herself cowering in the far corner, baring her teeth like an animal.

  “Gwynn—”

  Colin sat up now, reached for the light. He blinked several times. In her corner, Gwynn hunched down, one arm across her bare breasts, the other held in front of her to fight off another attack.

  “What is it?” Colin asked quickly, climbing from the bed and taking a step toward her.

  “Stay away from me,” she cried. “Get away from me!”

  He took another tentative step. “Gwynn. It’s me. Me. Colin.” The light turned his hair into a nimbus of fire. She could not see his eyes. They might have been black holes.

  “No,” she screamed out again, shaking uncontrollably. “Go—just go!”

  He stopped. Looked down at her. Hurt. Confused. “Gwynn?”

  But she couldn’t look at him, couldn’t listen to him. Her cheek stung where she had hit the wall. Her hips ached; her insides burned and agonized. She felt the bile rise from her gullet and knew she would be sick.

  “Go. Just get out. Take your things. Please.” She suddenly found herself sobbing. “Go, Tommy. Just go.”

  A spasm crossed his face. He pulled the duvet from the bed and tossed it to her.

  “Cover yourself,” he said quietly, each word twisted from some deep wounded place. “It’s cold.”

  Then he bent to the floor to pick up his clothes before slipping through the door to the stairs.

  For a long time after she’d heard the front door close, after she’d heard his truck start and move down Eyewell Lane, she huddled against the wall, crying softly. At last, she reached out a shaking hand to pull the duvet to her and around her shoulders. She attempted to stand and was gripped by a pain so intense she cried out and doubled over. There was blood, she saw in horror, on her thighs.

  She dashed for the bath, where she threw herself to her knees over the toilet and vomited until there was nothing left.

  36

  GWYNN COULDN’T FACE the bed again.

  As the weak sun began to define the world outside the front windows, she dragged herself down to the sofa in the sitting room and folded herself in the corner. She clutched the duvet around her body like some sort of armor, crying sporadically, until there were no tears left either.

  Gwynn, she thought, staring at the wing-backed chair. Poor woman.

  Moving hurt, so she elected not to move. Poor Gwynn, she thought again, and found herself confused as to which Gwynn she felt pity for.

  SHE DOZED OFF and was awakened by the sound of Mary’s key in the lock. It took her a moment to recognize the sound .She was paralyzed with fear, unabl
e to place herself in time. Then Mary was bustling through on her way to the kitchen, but pulled up short at the sight of Gwynn on the sofa.

  “Are you ill?” she demanded, her usual staid demeanor jarred. “You look terrible. What’s happened?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Mary shed her coat and scarf as she hurried through the kitchen door. Gwynn leaned her aching head against the back of the sofa and listened to the sounds of running water, of the tea things being drawn hurriedly from the cupboards and clunked out on the tray. So typical of Mary, she thought numbly: tea would fix everything. She hoped Mary was right.

  She shuddered again, thinking of Tommy Chelton.

  She shook harder when she remembered the stricken look on Colin’s face when she’d called him Tommy.

  “Here.” Mary held a mug before her, waiting until she took it before settling on the other end of the sofa. She clucked her tongue. “You’re not even dressed.”

  Gwynn had no idea how to answer that observation, and so remained silent.

  The tea was so hot it scalded her mouth, but she welcomed the feeling. Some other part of her body hurting, and with a pain she could understand. She blinked her eyes and took another burning sip from the cup.

  “I would have broken out the whisky,” Mary said, “but there’s no open bottle down on Mrs. Chelton’s drinks shelf.” The words were wry, an attempt at humor, but Gwynn couldn’t rise to them. She kept her eyes closed until she’d emptied her teacup.

  “Are you ill?” Mary asked again. There were tight frown lines between her eyes, pulling her sharply etched brows downward.

  Gwynn shook her head.

  Mary waited, but Gwynn didn’t answer further. The silence between them was tense. Anxious.

  At last Mary sighed deeply. “I am not a stupid woman,” she said slowly, her brown gaze level and searching. “I open the refrigerator and find the remainder of what looks like a very special, very celebratory dinner. Is that a beef Wellington you have in there? Obviously someone went to a lot of trouble over last night’s meal. And as I just said, I’m not stupid, and I have a pretty good idea what that special celebratory dinner is all about, and for whom it was cooked.”