Unto Death

by Lena West

  “How very unoriginal of you Lucy. But then, we can't expect an inexperienced girl to know any better, I suppose.”

  She stroked her own sumptuous scarlet silk skirts, confident both she and her gown outshone all others present tonight.

  “Not spots, my dear Mrs Cummings. Dots. Tiny, utterly delightful, dots. You look positively radiant, Lucy dear.”

  Their hostess wasn't prepared to let a slur like that on her old friend's granddaughter go undefended.

  “It's only a gel as pretty and youthful as yourself who shows to advantage in those weeny little off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves you're wearing. We older ladies look like the proverbial mutton dressed as lamb if we're foolish enough to sport them, eh Mrs Cummings?”

  She laughed, ignoring the similar sleeves on Isabella's flashy red gown. Murmurs of agreement sounded from other ladies nearby.

  “I love this gown Aunt Hetty. That's why I saved it for a special occasion.” Lucy stroked her skirts admiringly. “Stephen chose it for me on our honeymoon in Sydney. He said it brings out sparkling golden lights in my eyes.”

  She turned her head slightly to be sure the lamplight's glow was caught in her eyes; a trick Grandmama had taught her when she made her come-out.

  “So it does. The dear boy is quite right.”

  Hetty conducted her protege to a seat next to a group of other young married ladies.

  Isabella seethed.

  How dare these dowdy old frumps, forever singing the praises of that spoilt, po-faced chit of a girl, include herself in their ranks. Couldn't they see how far she stood above all of them? No-one in this god-forsaken backwater could hold a candle to her. Furious at being so soundly snubbed, Isabella snatched a glass of wine from the tray being offered by a maid in mob-cap and apron.

  Downing half of its contents in one gulp, she stormed off in search of more congenial company among the guests chatting on the side veranda.

  Isabella made a beeline for Stephen. He'd had ample time to get over his inconvenient attack of conscience, and by now was no doubt regretting his hasty dismissal of her. She'd wasted no time in finding a replacement for him, of course, but her new lover was uncouth, lacking the finesse she'd trained Stephen to. That was the advantage in taking a young lover; she could train him to meet her most exacting requirements.

  Young men were so deliciously malleable. They possessed such wonderful stamina. It might be fun to have the two of them on a string. Isabella wound an arm through Stephen's and smiled beguilingly when, startled, he glanced down at her.

  Stephen stiffened, and tension filled the air. Distant thunder growled like a divine portent of trouble.

  “Stephen dear, how absolutely delightful to see you again.”

  “I'm sorry Mrs Cummings.”

  Wintry hauteur drained his countenance of its usual affability. Implacably determined, he freed his arm, making not the slightest effort to hide his disdain.

  “Mr Mannering and I are in the middle of a discussion. Please excuse me.”

  With that, he turned his back on Isabella, white-knuckled fists rammed into his pockets.

  Stunned, Isabella couldn't believe it. How dare Stephen Fortescue, her devoted slave, turn on her. He was growing as rigidly self-righteous as his damned father.

  Her fiery, already exacerbated temper flared to life.

  Seeing ugly red splotches appearing on Isabella's cheeks, signalling an imminent outburst, John McGowan hurried to step into the breech. Hetty would never forgive him if he allowed her annual dinner party to degenerate into a scene more suited to a low tavern than polite society.

  He steered Isabella well away from young Stephen, glad to see the boy had finally acquired a modicum of common sense. It wasn't before time. With a pretty young wife on his arm, there was no place for the likes of Isabella Cummings in young Fortescue's life. But did he have to make his stand here, tonight?

  Isabella Cummings was a difficult enough guest at the best of times.

  At dinner Lucy sparkled, happy to be among friends. Happy to have her husband's eyes turned admiringly in her direction. Not once had Stephen's gaze wandered towards That Woman. Flickering light drew her eyes to the window where lightning flashed intermittently. Holding her breath, Lucy counted the seconds till its echoing thunder rumbled out a warning. Still a long way off. She relaxed, tuning back in to the buzz of conversation round the table. If there was going to be a storm, she hoped it would hold off till they were safely home.

  From her seat at the other end of the long table, next to their watchful host, Isabella glowered, and emptied her wine glass as quickly as it was refilled. Growing ever more nervous, John signalled to the maid serving the wines to not be so prompt in refilling Isabella's glass. Unlike her usual self, she'd not had much to say during the meal, being too busy sulking and nursing her grievances.

  Which was why it came as a surprise to most when she suddenly burst into loud, raucous laughter, more akin to a screeching cockatoo than her normal, calculatedly dulcet tones.

  “Just look at you all,” Isabella gestured, glass in hand, splashing a crescent of red droplets onto the snowy tablecloth.

  “Sitting around, minding your manners and behaving as if you're the cream of society. Well, I tell you to your overfed faces; you're nothing but a bunch of bloody hypocrites. I could tell you stories about some of your precious little pets,” she sneered down the table, an unsteady gaze directed towards Stephen.

  “That's right. Look down your noses at me. I'll tell you the truth, then you won't be feeling so superior.”

  By this time, Archibald Cummings and both McGowans were on their feet. They hauled Isabella out of her chair and half-dragged her out of the dining room, her intemperate laughter leaving a deathly silence in her wake.

  Hetty shut the door behind her with a distinct slam.

  She was so annoyed with that dratted woman, she had to bite her tongue to keep her opinion of her from spewing out. She hadn't wanted to invite her in the first place, only how could she snub Archibald? The poor old chap had enough to bear with a wife like his, without losing all his friends over her; though she'd be damned if she'd have the woman back after this episode. Isabella Cummings belonged in the gutter, not at a gentleman's table. If she wasn't so flaming angry Hetty would be mortified to see her party, which she'd been so looking forward to, reduced to this miserable fiasco.

  Archibald hustled his wife, who had fallen into a drunken stupor on being deprived of her audience, into his carriage which had promptly been brought round; too embarrassed to utter more than the briefest of heartfelt apologies.

  Inside the homestead, Hetty's very capable housekeeper had taken matters in the dining room into her own hands, serving the desserts without waiting for her employers to return to the table. Somebody had to give that lot in there something to keep them in their chairs, she reckoned, or next thing they'd be outside gawking and getting underfoot where nice old Mr Cummings was trying to get away as quickly and quietly as he could, poor man.

  ***

  Isabella's outburst had shocked Stephen to the core, coming as it did so soon after her previous unforgivable behaviour. His own reaction shocked him even more. Her pleas for his understanding after her attack on Lucy, had filled him with regret and pity that love had driven her to such extremes. Earlier tonight, it had caused him intense pain to repudiate Isabella, but it had been necessary to make it crystal clear to her all was at an end between them.

  Now, finally seeing her as others saw her, his mind recoiled, a shudder stirring the sick disgust curdling his stomach as he recalled her drunken outburst.

  Were tonight's aborted revelations the revenge she'd threatened him with? he wondered.

  His eyes were well and truly opened now to what had been clearly apparent to his father, among others, from the very first.

  Isabella had duped him, playing on his youthful gullibility. He didn't feel either young or gullible now. Instead he felt aged. Wearied. And angry.

  Cold, implacab
le anger heavily laced with shame burned in his breast.

  Thunder and lightning now played continuously across the sky, the air pressure of the building storm setting up a throbbing pulse in his brain so insistent he could barely think. He'd always enjoyed thunderstorms, revelling in the violent display of God's power, but not this one.

  Tonight, every drumroll of thunder was a voice in his head yelling 'Fool!'

  Beneath the anger and shame filling Stephen's heart lay emptiness. An emotional abyss, where once he had thought there was love. The woman he'd seen tonight bore no relationship to the woman he'd placed on a pedestal and worshipped for so long. The woman who had never existed.

  Isabella's drunkenness had exposed the real woman beneath the beautiful veneer.

  On the way home, as Stephen slumped back in his corner of the carriage unable to look upon either of the other occupants, he relived their past encounters.

  With the benefit of illuminating hindsight, he saw how Isabella had dazzled and manipulated him from the very beginning. He had been hopelessly, blindly, infatuated; in love with the idea of love; with a woman who didn't exist. None of it had been real. Everything between them had been crafted to Isabella's script; for Isabella's benefit.

  Right down to her pushing him into marriage with Lucy.

  For love of Isabella Cummings, he had ruined his life. He was, without a doubt, the fool his father had claimed him to be.

  Involving Lucy was the point at which Isabella's devious scheming had begun to come unravelled, Stephen realised. She hadn't counted on the warmth, the closeness, which had sprung to life between him and his wife.

  Poor Lucy.

  Remorse tore at his heart as his mind circled round and round over the same unproductive ground making his head ache. He could see it all so clearly now. Shamed flooded him to the depths of his being at his shocking naivete. Isabella had never loved him. Not as he understood love. He'd been no more than her plaything; a toy to while away a few hours of boredom. Her anger at his defection, was the vicious reaction of a thwarted, unstable, spoilt woman.

  This shattering revelation left a void in his heart he feared might never be filled.

  Involuntarily, he cast a quick look in Lucy's direction, to find her watching him, concern clearly written in the deep crease marring the smoothness of her forehead.

  He couldn't bear it if she knew how badly he had betrayed her trust.

  Catching Stephen's eye Lucy gave him a wobbly, uncertain smile. She had been surreptitiously studying him, slumped in his corner, head averted; his very posture advertising his misery and defeat. She felt certain his infatuation with Isabella Cummings had been dealt a death blow.

  So why didn't she feel exultant, now the scales had fallen from her husband’s eyes and he had so obviously ejected That Woman from his life?

  “Stephen... Darling, you look unwell. Can I help?”

  Lucy leaned forward to take his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

  “No. No … I'm fine. The storm's making my head ache, that's all.”

  In truth, her concern for him eased his pain, which owed very little to the storm.

  He didn't deserve Lucy, but oh, how much he needed her. Needed her sweet, selfless affection. He felt his cheeks burn, and hoped it was too dark for the others to read his face.

  “Tonight…“

  He couldn't think what to say that wouldn't give him away. Lucy must never know how terribly he'd wronged her, he thought wildly. If she turned from him now, he couldn't bear it. Lucy's affection for him was the one bright light left in his life, and he'd do anything to preserve it undimmed.

  “Shocking. Absolutely shocking to see such behaviour at a friend's table. I feel for poor Archibald. What he must be going through, married to such a vulgar strumpet.”

  Thomas, glad to have her out of all their lives, made no bones about his opinion.

  “Yes,” Lucy agreed softly, “but I think Mrs Cummings must be a most unhappy woman to behave as she did.”

  Stephen straightened.

  Staring at Lucy, he drew in a shuddering breath. He knew she was only referring to the evening's events, but what she said could explain so much else in Isabella's behaviour. Although understanding didn't change one single thing, he couldn't help contrasting Lucy's gentle consideration with Isabella's twisted evil.

  ***

  As Lucy blew out the lamp and slipped into bed a deafening thunderclap shook the house on its foundations. She cried out, covering her ears with her hands. Stephen reached for her, pulling her into the shelter of his arms and she buried her face against his chest.

  The rain which had been threatening for hours was released in a sudden deluge, drumming like the hooves of wild brumbies on the tin roof. As the storm raged outside, another storm broke also. Lucy felt Stephen shudder, a deep groan, more felt than heard issuing from his lips.

  Driven by a need beyond any he'd ever experienced, Stephen crushed Lucy into the mattress, his weight pinning her beneath him.

  He ravished her with mouth and hands and she opened to him with a need matching his own. Greedy hands sped over skin, kneading soft flesh and hard muscles, each driving the other onwards. Higher. Relentlessly, towards the peak. Here was no tender loving, no gentle submission. Only a mutual driving need utterly consuming them both.

  “I need you Lu,” Stephen rasped, surging into her when he could wait no longer, driving her headlong to a dizzying climax. “I want it all. All of you. Give me all there is.”

  Lucy couldn't tell if the noise filling her ears was the thunder of her own blood pounding breakneck through her veins or the rain drumming on the roof. Stephen's heart hammered under her hand as wildly as her own, and she gave him what he demanded. All of her, everything she held within her heart. She held nothing back, and as she surrendered, she made demands of her own.

  “You too, Stephen. You too. All of you.”

  Harder and faster they sped towards the summit, to topple over together, Stephen shouting Lucy's name as he collapsed upon her, lungs desperate and heart almost bursting.

  They lay twined in a tangle of limbs, lost in the aftermath of the storm; and as the ability to think gradually returned to her, Lucy knew he had given her what she'd demanded of him.

  For the first time, her husband had held nothing back.

  For the first time he completely lost control.

  Even though he used her to assuage his pain, the raw honesty infusing this union had acted on her like the most seductive of aphrodisiacs, revealing the elusive element she'd been missing.

  She hadn't minded the voracious kisses and the rough, animal passion. She had met him kiss for kiss, caress for rough caress, uncaring of the bruises she would have to show for such careless handling on the morrow.

  She had met his desperation with a matching urgency of her own, discovering a new kind of power in their wild loving. Her hands stroked lightly over his sweat-slicked back, her heart brimming with love.

  When Stephen flung himself away from her, to lie on his back, one arm covering his face, it felt like a repudiation of herself and all she felt for him. Lucy choked back a sob, but not quickly enough. Stephen lowered his arm, turning anguished eyes towards her.

  “Oh God, Lucy. I'm sorry. So sorry. I behaved like a wild animal, but I needed you so much. Say you forgive me. Please.”

  Lucy felt dizzy as her emotions swung from ecstasy to despair then suddenly back to the heights. She laughed softly with relief to discover it was himself he'd turned from, not her.

  “Certainly, I forgive you my darling. Not that I have any complaints, you know.”

  She studied him, noting his misery, and was overcome by compassion. Love infused her whole being.

  Lucy drew Stephen into her arms where he lay, shuddering in silence, under attack from powerful emotions. When he would have torn himself from her arms, Lucy refused to release him.

  She stroked his damp hair back from his forehead, uttering soothing murmurs until he stilled, finally f
alling into an exhausted sleep.

  The storm rumbled off into the mountains, the lightning flashes becoming distant flickers against the blackness of the night and the thunderous rain on the roof gentled to a soft patter. While Stephen slept, cradled within the protection of her arms, Lucy held slumber at bay until she had worked out the meaning of the strange new emotions she'd become aware of on the drive home, and since.

  This was her first opportunity to examine them, free from interruption.

  She soon realised they weren't new at all. These feelings had been growing within her heart for some time, unnoticed and unrecognised, as she clung to her earlier, schoolgirlish image of romantic love.

  Yes, I've loved Stephen forever, Lucy told herself, but not with a woman's love. It took time and adversity for my love to grow and mature.

  Now, she loved her husband with a strength and intensity previously unimaginable. While neither ignoring nor condoning his sins against herself and their marriage for one minute, she would still do anything to protect Stephen from harm or hurt.

  She would lay down her life for him.

  She would even set him free if that was what was needed to secure his happiness.

  Pray God it never comes to that!

  True love, she now realised, placed the loved one above self. Lucy was shocked to recognise how selfish she'd been all this time, considering only her own needs. Her own wants. She had looked upon Stephen as a prize to be won in a contest between herself and Isabella.

  Not once had she considered Stephen's feelings. His needs. His wants.

  For the first time, Lucy placed herself in Stephen's shoes. If he loves her, as I love him, she thought, he must be devastated to lose her in such fraught circumstances. The disillusionment and pain must be excruciating.

  No wonder he'd been so desperate to assuage his grief upon her body tonight. Her heart bled for him, taking on his grief as if it were her own. All she could do now was to give him time and peace in which to heal. To simply be there for him when he turned to her.

  If he turned to her.

  Even after tonight, the future held no guarantees Stephen would ever return her love. Although she no longer had to fear Isabella taking him from her, she did fear the ghost of his love for Isabella. Feared That Woman would haunt her marriage long into the future.