Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  "Ahhh, there you are,” he said, as he came through the arch, but the girl made no move to acknowledge him.

  He stirred the dwindling fire in the hearth alive again with a poker and fed more wood to the flames. “You shouldn't be sitting here in all this damp,” he said, clapping ashes from his hands. “You'll take a chill, and then when the weather does turn fair you'll still be housebound."

  Mary didn't answer and he strolled around in front of her. “I would like a word with you,” he announced.

  "Please yourself,” she exhaled emptily.

  Elliot tilted his head studying her through narrowed eyes. She hadn't dressed her hair. With no combs to tame it, it hung from a center part in a tangled mass of curls that almost hid her face. A black woolen shawl covered the bodice of her gray merino dress. She'd drawn her knees up making her feet invisible beneath the wrinkled skirt, though he saw them twitching there impatiently.

  "I had a letter from your brother today,” he said. “He'll be home for recess in a fortnight. He'll be arriving the day before his birthday."

  "So?"

  "I'm planning a little celebration and I'd like your help."

  Her eyes did flash up at him then. “What sort of celebration?"

  "Why, a birthday celebration, of course."

  Mary's mouth fell open. “We don't celebrate Collie's birthday, you dolt,” she snapped. “Father won't allow it."

  Elliot's posture clenched. “Do you mean to say your brother has never had a birthday party?"

  "Of course not. We don't make merry on the anniversary of my mother's death!"

  "That is ridiculous, and it will change commencing now."

  "Why can't you just leave us alone? Why must you pick and probe and meddle in our lives? Believe me, Collie won't thank you for it and Father will be furious."

  "Let him be. He's left me in charge here, and if I say there's to be a party, then by heaven there will be one. Cook is going to prepare all of your brother's favorite foods for the occasion, and we shall have decorations and gifts as well."

  "Does Collie know about this?"

  "Of course not, it's to be a surprise."

  "Ohhhh, it'll be a surprise all right,” Mary twittered.

  "Don't entertain any ideas of spoiling it, miss,” Elliot warned, “or, so help me God, I'll—"

  "You'll what?” she interrupted him. Vaulting out of her chair, she strolled too close to him for comfort. “What will you do, good vicar?” She flicked his neck cloth roughly. “You're too afraid to come out from behind this pitiful collar you wear to do anything."

  Elliot caught her wrist and moved aside. “So we're back to this behavior, are we?” he said. “Well, miss, don't let this collar fool you. It has no bearing on the strength in my hand. If you so much as think of interfering in any way, I will take you over my knee and lay this hand where it will do the most good. Someone should have done that long ago."

  Mary struggled to free her wrist, but the vicar's grip was firm. “You fancy yourself the one to take that on, do you?” she snapped. “How dare you threaten me, you ass? Let me go!"

  "'Tis no threat, ‘tis a gilt-edged guarantee.” Using both hands, he sat her back down in the chair and released her, his posture stooping over her prevented her escape without restraints. “Now then,” he said, “on the first clear day, you will accompany me to Quintrell Downs, where we will choose your brother's birthday gifts. I thought you might select a nice cravat—something dressy. Mrs. Croft tells me that the haberdasher there has an excellent selection. I had a fine pair of boots and a riding crop in mind."

  Mary drew her knees up until her feet disappeared underneath her skirt again, and tugged the shawl tighter about her shoulders. “I am not going anywhere with you,” she said. “I'll have no part in this mad plan, when Father finds out—"

  "And who is going to tell him?” Elliot thundered, raising his hand. His narrowed eyes held her relentlessly, and after a moment she looked away. “Good,” he triumphed, “because I have reached the end of my patience. Don't think to test me, miss. You should know by now that such an approach is useless. When I first came into this house your brother suggested corporal punishment as a means of punishing you. I rejected the suggestion as I recall. I was wrong. And since your father has left the issue of discipline entirely up to me, I would take care, were I you, not to provoke a demonstration of the sort of discipline I have come to believe would be most beneficial to you."

  Mary's pretty mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I'm not afraid of you,” she hurled at him. “You'd never strike a lady—you haven't got it in you."

  "I see no ‘lady’ here, only a spoiled child who is long overdue for a proper spanking, and that, my girl, I do have in me, make no mistake about it."

  He straightened up and squared his posture. The scent of violets drifting from her tangled hair had left him weak. He longed to take her in his arms and melt her pouting lips beneath his own, which had trembled apart in anticipation. He could feel the soft pressure of her body against him just as he had since that first day on the footpath—feel the softness of that milk-white skin and silky hair against his hands and face. Something primitive stirred in his loins; it threatened to betray him. When he spoke, his voice was husky with desire, albeit laced with anger.

  "You will make no attempt to interfere with your brother's birthday celebration,” he said. “You will accompany me to Quintrell Downs to choose his gift if I have to hobble you. And furthermore, you will hereafter make yourself presentable in this house. You will wash your face and comb your hair—and have one of the maids press off your frock with the flatiron. You look like a Liverpool street urchin."

  Mary made no reply. She had fixed her eyes on the wall of glass again in a gesture of dismissal.

  Elliot stood staring down at her for a long moment, working his hands at his sides. And when he could no longer control the agony and the ecstasy of her closeness that had so totally aroused him, he spun on his heels and fled.

  * * * *

  Three days later the weather broke. Just after dawn the sun fought its way through the gray cloud cover flooding the sodden coast with light, and Elliot had Harris hitch up the trap for the trip to Quintrell Downs.

  Pouting the whole while, Mary complied with his demands without speaking one word to him during the entire excursion. Sunken into lethargy, she randomly chose a cravat for Colin at the haberdasher's, then endured while Elliot made his choices, and the wheels of the trap had scarcely stopped rolling in the drive upon their return when she climbed down and ran off toward the footpath. Elliot followed her with his eyes until she disappeared over the hill, but he made no attempt to stop her. The outcome would have been another confrontation and he wasn't up to that. He had won his victory, shallow though it was, but somehow that didn't matter. The birthday celebration would take place as planned. He concentrated all his energies upon that. And by the time Colin arrived, late in the afternoon on the twenty-seventh of March, all was in readiness.

  When Mary entered the dining hall that evening with her usual flourish, Elliot was prepared for the worst. He's steeled himself against everything from a scrapping match with Colin to a full-blown spoiling of the surprise party scheduled for the following evening, but neither occurred. Instead, a new facet of Mary Chapin's unpredictable personality surfaced. Color blazed in her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled in the fire glow from the hearth, and now and then the corners of her mouth seemed to lift in a curious absent smile. She seemed exhilarated and detached—preoccupied with whatever secret thoughts had distracted her. Her body was there, sitting in her usual chair, but it was almost as though her spirit was not. It seemed to have taken flight. Whatever the phenomenon, both Colin and the vicar were grateful for it, though Elliot wasn't ready to accept it at face value. He'd seen enough of Mary's moods to know they weren't to be trusted.

  Colin's birthday dawned with a beautiful sunrise. But the glow mellowed with a blaze of saffron that lingered long after the sun had cleared the hori
zon, foretelling a flaw on the way. Watching the servants scurry through the house fastening shutters while the sun was still shining was a bizarre experience at best, but not unwarranted. By noon the sky had paled to an eerie jaundiced shade of gray, and the wind had risen sharply, howling at the turrets and oriels, and moaning about the pilasters. It seemed to penetrate the very walls, and drafts leaked in everywhere crawling over the floors like living things.

  By teatime the cliff was peppered with a gathering of gulls and terns and cormorants steadily flocked inland for shelter. Clucking and preening, they massed in lee of the house and stable. Still more huddled in the paddock scrapping over territorial rights. And Amy warned that soon high-flying combers would tear up the strand gouging great holes in the sea wall, while cyclonic winds tore off shingles and uprooted trees.

  But Elliot wasn't about to allow the elements to cast a shadow upon Colin's birthday celebration. In the kitchen Cook was preparing a feast of poached oysters, roast goose stuffed with apples, roasted potatoes, and turnips in her own secret buttery sauce. An elegant fruitcake, laced with brandy and spread thick with frosting, had been carefully hidden away in the pantry, and festoons of fluted paper bound with silk ribbons to bunches of dried herbs and flowers were ready to be hung in the dining hall as soon as it was vacant after tea.

  Elliot had cancelled the chapel sessions that morning, and Colin set out early astride Gideon while the storm was still boiling off the headlands. Mary disappeared after breakfast as well, and neither she nor Colin were present for the midday meal or tea. Elliot found Colin in his room at the dinner hour and accompanied him to the dining hall. Mary hadn't yet come down and the vicar was almost relieved, since—expecting a scene—he wanted to present the boy with his gifts privately.

  Colin stood gaping at the festive garlands draped about the table, which had been set with the best china and heaped with fresh flowers, while the vicar took the neatly wrapped presents from the sideboard where he'd hidden them and presented them, delighting in the boy's puzzled expression.

  "What's all this?” said Colin, staring down at the gifts.

  "Those are your birthday presents,” said Elliot, “go on, open them."

  "Birthday presents?"

  Elliot laughed. “Open the large one first,” he said, meanwhile tugging the bell pull to summon Amy.

  "Does Father know about this?"

  "No, he does not. Never mind about that. Open them, Colin."

  The boy tore the wrapping away from the larger package and took out the riding boots. Dumbfounded, he ran his hand the length of the smooth cordovan leather. “My God, Elliot...they're beautiful,” he murmured.

  "I had Mrs. Croft examine your old ones for the size,” the vicar explained.

  "Amy's in on this, too?"

  "Everyone is. Wait until you see the fine dinner Cook has prepared—birthday cake and all. Even your sister has a gift for you. She chose it herself."

  "How the hell did you manage that?"

  "Never mind. Open the other package."

  Colin was about to speak again when Amy appeared in the arch.

  "Ah, Mrs. Croft,” said Elliot, “would you please go up and see what's keeping Miss Mary? And tell her not to forget to bring her birthday gift."

  "Yes, sir,” the housekeeper responded, set in motion.

  Colin unwrapped the smaller package and took out the riding crop. He sucked in his breath and fingered the engraving. “Elliot . . . I don't know what to say,” he stammered. “These gifts cost you more than you can afford, but . . . why?"

  "Do you like them, Colin?"

  "Like them? My God, how could you even ask?"

  The vicar smiled. “Then the cost doesn't matter,” he said.

  "Birthday presents!” Colin exclaimed in disbelief. “Do you know how we used to celebrate my birthday when I was a child?"

  The vicar shook his head.

  "By a visit to my mother's grave in the churchyard on Bodmin Moor. Afterward, I'd be sent to my room—out of Father's sight. It was a somber affair—a day of mourning, and he always managed to be here for that occasion.” He laughed. “That's where I went today—to that grave. I really had to push poor Gideon. It's quite a ways. I was set to stay in my room as usual, too, ‘til you came to fetch me. Old habits are hard to break. Thank you, Elliot, I shall never forget this."

  "You will have a proper birthday celebration every year from now on, Colin. I intend to see to that myself."

  "I still want to know how you got Mary to cooperate."

  "It doesn't matter how—I just did. End of issue."

  The boy's teal eyes clouded. “Elliot, are things any better between you two?” he probed.

  The vicar shook his head. “No,” he replied. “It's quite hopeless, Colin. Let's not get into all that now. She'll be down here any minute."

  "But you're in love with her. A blind man could see it. Elliot, she doesn't know. If you would only tell her that."

  "And give her more ammunition to hurl at me? She has enough of an arsenal as it is. Believe me, I've come close more than once, and if I thought there was even the slightest shred of hope that she might . . . well, there isn't. You can take my word for that. No, Colin, it is best left as it is."

  "I still think—"

  "I'll tell you what I think,” Elliot interrupted him, “this is your birthday, and I won't have you darkening it worrying about me. I think you should pour the wine. As soon as your sister arrives we shall have a toast to new habits for the twenty-eighth of March."

  Colin took up the wine bottle and began to fill the goblets. He had just finished filling the last glass when Amy burst into the room.

  One look toward the housekeeper's articulated eyes send a cold chill racing along the vicar's spine. “What is it, Mrs. Croft?” he said. “What's wrong?"

  "Young miss isn't up in her room, sir,” Amy said. “We can't find her nowhere. Nobody's seen her since she went off ta them stones after breakfast."

  "She can't still be out there,” the vicar reasoned, “it's been dark for hours. She's always back before dark, and the storm is coming. You must be mistaken. She has to be in the house somewhere."

  "She's hiding, no doubt,” Colin said to Elliot. “You knew she wouldn't be able to let this pass without a disruption. Christ!"

  "She isn't in the house, I tell you, Master Colin,” said Amy. “We've been in all o’ the rooms fastenin’ shutters and drawin’ the draperies, bracin’ for the storm, she's nowhere ta be found.” She turned to Elliot. “I'm scared, sir."

  Colin raked his hair back with an angry hand. “She's hiding outside somewhere, then,” he said. “She wants to spoil the evening luring us out to take a drenching on a wild goose chase. This is deliberate, Elliot. When I get my hands on that little bitch, so help me, I'll break her blasted neck."

  A vicious gust slammed against the house, moaning like a woman, and the vicar's heart sank. “No, Colin, this is no prank,” he said. “If she's still out there in that, something's wrong—dreadfully wrong. Go quickly, bring our mantles.” He turned to Amy, who stood pale and trembling, wringing the corner of her apron. “Fetch lanterns from the scullery, Mrs. Croft,” he charged. “Hurry, before the rain comes."

  The tone of his voice commanded obedience, and they both ran off in different directions. Minutes later, Colin and Elliot were picking their way over the footpath with the raw, blasting wind at their backs driving them down the slope toward the valley below. They hadn't taken time to saddle horses. Rain was eminent, building in the thick gray clouds boiling overhead. The air tasted of salt. It stole the breath from their nostrils. And the feeble glow from their lanterns gave off no more light than a pair of fireflies slowing their progress.

  "She's hiding off in the scrub along here somewhere waiting to pounce on us when we pass,” Colin shouted over the racket of the wind. “You just see if I'm not right."

  "I'm praying that you are, Colin,” said the vicar, “you don't know how I'm praying."

  But f
ear had taken such a hold on Elliot that he couldn't pray, and his heart was pounding so violently that it threatened to rival the thunder rumbling overhead.

  Ghostly flashes of lightning lit the land as they rounded the bend in the path that led to level ground. It revealed nothing but rippling waves of chattering heather set in motion by the wind.

  "I still think we should be doing this on horseback,” Colin complained, righting himself after tripping in a rut. “We could have been to the ring and back again by now."

  "I'm not particularly lucky with horses in storms,” the vicar reminded him, “besides, we can hardly see in this ink afoot. If she has stumbled, as you just did, and is lying somewhere along the path, we'd surely trample her on horseback."

  "She can't still be out here in this, Elliot—she knows better. This path is a washout in a flaw."

  The vicar didn't answer. Narrowed in the wind, his eyes were fixed toward the north, waiting for the lightning to show him the ring. It seemed like an eternity before that happened, but he finally sighted it bathed in an eerie flash of white light, and he nudged Colin off the path.

  Together they plowed through the bracken and black heather toward the stones catching handfuls of thorns as they reached out to steady themselves, for the wind was so brutal then that it seemed determined to knock them off their feet.

  Elliot reached the hunchbacked tree ahead of Colin, whose ankles had become tangled in a thorn bush. Holding onto the gnarled tree trunk for support, the vicar waited until another flash of lightning lit the ring again, since the wind had long since extinguished his lantern. He saw Mary first, lying motionless on the ground beside the altar, and his heart lost its rhythm. A cold, prickling sensation paralyzed his scalp. He felt the blood drain from his scalp, and his legs threatened to give way beneath him.

  Somehow he ran. “Oh, my God! Quickly, Colin,” he cried at the top of his voice, as he plunged headlong into the circle of stones and fell down on his knees beside Mary.

  She was lying on her back. Her gray merino frock had been torn open, exposing her breasts to the lightning's glare. The blood-soaked skirt was pulled up about her waist, and her bruised legs were spread wide beneath. What remained of her undergarments lay impaled on a spiny clump of bracken beside her.