Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  Chapter Eleven

  * * * *

  Amy's skill with plasters made of bruised comfrey and houseleek leaves saved Colin's back from infection, and as the weeks passed her olive oil rubs greatly reduced the amount of scar tissue. He didn't return to school despite the vicar's pleading. For all practical purposes, he was master of Cragmoor now, since his father's stroke had left him too impaired to leave his chamber. While the old man's mind still functioned, his body did not. The paralysis to his right side was permanent, and though he labored dauntlessly to communicate, his speech was slow and difficult to understand.

  The first week in May, Sir John's solicitors were summoned from London to revise his will and arrange for the leasing of Ramsey House. In the final draft of the will, provisions were made for the completion of St. Michael's Church and vicarage as promised, and Elliot was to receive a generous monthly allowance for the rest of his life. Mary was provided for in a trust set aside for her use if her sanity were to be restored. Should her condition be permanent, it was to be used for her care, providing that she not be sent to an asylum. Colin became sole heir to everything else—Ramsey House, Cragmoor, all of his father's holdings in the British Isles, as well as his plantations producing tobacco and spice in the Caribbean, and a veritable fortune in capital funds.

  All of the staff at Ramsey House, with the exception of Rina Banks, opted to stay to serve the new tenants, Giles Sayer, a widower, and his three daughters. Rina would train her replacement and remain only until St. Michael's vicarage was ready for occupancy. Then she would come to Cornwall to serve Elliot in his new situation.

  During the vicar's convalescence Jacob Wythe was pressed into house duty, the gravity of matters there, taking precedence over the condition of the grounds. Meanwhile, his wife, Abigail, pregnant with their first child, managed what light gardening chores she could handle when her husband's duties in the main house kept him from them during the day.

  Mary's condition remained unchanged. The periods of mad screaming and thrashing about hadn't recurred since the day of her father's stroke. She had become listless and docile, existing in a perpetual state of lethargy. Recognizing no one, she spoke only to herself in hushed mumbles, looking through those who tended her as though they didn't exist.

  When two months had gone by without any recurrence of violence, Dr. Howard permitted her restraints to be removed and allowed her brief periods out of bed, which she spent for the most part sitting cross-legged on the floor in the spot where the pentacle had been, rocking back and forth like a child. She could not, or would not feed herself. Her meals were fed to her by Amy, or the maids, who continued her care in shifts, and she was never left alone, day or night.

  Dr. Howard was so pleased with Elliot's recovery by the middle of June that he allowed him to resume his meals in the dining hall and hold services in the chapel on Sundays, which he never failed to attend. Afterward he would look in on Sir John, and Mary, and Abigail Wythe who was due to deliver in August. His visits through the week became less frequent as time wore on, and the vicar passed his days between time spent with Colin and Sir John, to whom he devoted most of his afternoons, reading aloud from the old man's favorite volumes, and the new Book Of Common Prayer Dr. Howard had given him to replace the one that had burned at the ring. For a time, an atmosphere of order prevailed at Cragmoor, albeit contrived, and Elliot filled the pages of his journal with calmer entries until one warm, breezy day during the last week in June.

  He was on his way to look in on sir John after breakfast when Amy stepped out of Mary's chamber across the way and approached him.

  "Can I have a word with you, sir?” she said.

  Something in her expression caused the hairs on the back of Elliot's neck to rise, and she had his full attention. “What is it, Mrs. Croft?” he murmured.

  "'Tis young miss,” she said. “She's comin’ down with somethin', I think. Her breakfast come up as fast as she ate it. I tried dosin’ her with chamomile, but she brought that up, too, and she's fretful, poor thing. Has been for the last couple o’ days on and off. I think we ought ta send Harris ‘round ta fetch Dr. Howard."

  "Of course,” said the vicar, “send him at once. Is there fever?"

  "No, there doesn't seem ta be. It could be just somethin’ she ate. You got ta watch her every minute, sir. Why, just last week Elsie turned her back for a second, and didn't young miss eat a handful o’ the ashes right out o’ the hearth before she could stop her."

  "For the love of mercy. Why hasn't the hearth been cleaned out, Mrs. Croft? It's June, not December, I haven't used mine in two months."

  "I know ‘tis June, sir, but the nights are still damp on the west side o’ the house clear inta August, because o’ the wind comin’ over the sea, and sometimes we throw on a log or two in the evenin’ just ta take the chill off."

  "Be more careful then. Who's with her now?"

  "Elsie, sir."

  "After you've sent Harris, go back and stay with Miss Mary yourself until Dr. Howard arrives. Be sure to tell him about the ashes. I'll speak with the maids myself."

  Set into motion, Amy hurried off toward the staircase just as Colin approached it from the north wing, dressed for riding. He halted her there, and while she gave him a brief account and continued on her way, the vicar walked back and joined him.

  Colin shook his head. “She can't eat her meals on her own, but she knows how to feast upon ashes. Jesus!” he said, jamming his hands into his pockets.

  "She doesn't know what she's doing, Colin, that's why the servants have to. God only knows what else she's gotten hold of."

  "Well, I wanted a ride, but I suppose I'd best put that off now ‘til we see what this is about,” said the boy, following Elliot down the stairs. “We may as well wait in the study. There's a good view of the drive from there."

  Once they'd reached it, Colin threw open the French doors letting in the fragrant breeze, heavy with the perfume of heather and meadowsweet. He drew a deep breath and let it out on a sigh.

  "A perfect morning for riding, goddamn it,” he complained. “It'll probably be pouring with rain by the time Howard's been and gone. Blast!"

  "Where do you disappear to on your rides?"

  "Here and there."

  "Where exactly is ‘here and there'?"

  "Anywhere that I can find willing female companionship. Does that shock you?"

  The vicar cocked his head considering his answer. “No,” he said, “but you meant it to, didn't you, Colin? Why?"

  The boy raked his hair back and turned away. “I'm sorry, Elliot,” he said, “it's probably best that you don't probe me on that topic."

  "Best for whom?"

  Colin spun to face him. “It's the only way I can convince myself that I'm alive,” he snapped.

  "There are other ways of doing that you know—you're young, handsome, wealthy, intelligent. You should have returned to school once you mended, and gone on to Oxford as you father wanted. You need a direction for yourself. I wish you would think about going back in the fall. There's nothing you can do here, and the frustration of that has left you bored and sullen and—"

  "And idle hands are the devil's tools, is that it?” Colin interrupted him. “I'm not going back to school, Elliot. If I hadn't been at that blasted school, all of this might have been prevented."

  "How could you have prevented it? You were under this roof when it happened. Why, you thought her preoccupation with that place—all of it—was nonsense. A prank to torment the servants. You said so yourself."

  "Because I wasn't here enough to see it for what it really was."

  "You know, then? I wish you'd tell me. I still don't know and I was here. No, Colin, that won't wash. You can't blame yourself for what's happened to your sister."

  "I don't blame myself—entirely—but that's not the issue. The issue is Eton, and I will not go back. That's over. How long can Father last as he is—do you know? Does anybody? He may not want me, but I'm not going to leave him here l
ike . . . like that!” He made a wild hand gesture.

  The vicar hadn't heard anything past the word ‘entirely'. It hung in the sweet-smelling air like a storm cloud between them. “You blame me, don't you?” He knew.

  "Elliot, you are my friend—probably the only real friend I'll ever have. I don't want to quarrel with you. Let's just say that when it comes to sexual pursuits our thinking is acutely dissimilar. We'll never agree, so the subject is best not broached."

  "I don't know you like this. Where is the warm-hearted boy with the handsome smile whom I met when I first came into this house, Colin? Where has he gone? Am I ever to see him again?"

  "'Tisn't likely. He died in a flaw on his birthday. You'll just have to get used to his alter ego, who is about to have a brandy. Will you join me?"

  "At half-past ten in the morning? I think not, and neither should you. There's another point upon which we disagree. You're at that entirely too often of late, Colin. We're all under a strain, but besotting yourself before noon will serve nothing."

  "You're wrong there, my friend,” said Colin. He held the snifter high. “You see, once I've convinced myself that I'm alive, this tends to help me forget it. We've got the cart before the horse this morning, though, I will admit, but . . . doesn't matter."

  He finished the last through a swallow and the vicar turned toward the door. “I want a word with Elsie and Sara,” he said, going through it. “Keep an eye out for Howard. I'll be back directly."

  * * * *

  Elliot was in no humor to engage in a sparring match with a bottle, which was technically what trying to reason with Colin in his cups—or on his way there—amounted to. Retreat was the only solution, and after taking the maids to task over Mary's care, anger dictated that he avoid the boy for the rest of the morning.

  The doctor arrived just before twelve looking troubled and went straight to Mary's chamber. After showing him in, Elliot returned to the study to wait with Colin for his report. But they weren't long subjected to the awkward silence between them. In less than half an hour, the doctor joined them, his worried expression unchanged. His mouth was no more than a thin, colorless line beneath his mustache, and the look in his eyes as he set his satchel down brought the vicar to his feet.

  "Sit back down there, Elliot—young Chapin,” he charged.

  The vicar obliged him, but Colin expanded his posture, tightened his grip on the neck of the brandy bottle in his hand, and stood spine-rigid in defiance, the set of his up-tilted jaw a more articulate response than any words he might have chosen.

  The doctor seemed not to notice. His eyes beneath knit brows were focused on Elliot, and he snatched the bottle out of Colin's hand and filled another glass. “Best have a swallow of this, Elliot,” he said, thrusting it toward him. “You've lost your color already."

  "She's dying,” the vicar murmured.

  "No, she is not, God help her,” said Howard. “She's with child."

  The words reached Elliot's ears, but it was a moment before they sank in.

  "W-with . . . Oh, George—my God!” he breathed.

  Beside him, Colin stiffened as though he'd been struck, but neither of them responded.

  "Now will you drink, damn you, Elliot?” barked the doctor. “Now, or from the look of you we won't have to worry anymore about bargains."

  Elliot took a swallow from the glass and handed it back to the doctor.

  "Are you certain?” said Colin, in a voice Elliot couldn't recognize. “You practically live in this house, Howard. How is it that it's taken you this long to see it?"

  "I've suspected for some time,” said the doctor.

  "Why didn't you say something, George?” Elliot said.

  "I didn't want to do that unless I was sure,” Howard barked defensively. “She's had no courses since the rape, but she bled for weeks afterward. That was three months ago. The ordeal of rape can play havoc with the body—just look at what it's done to her mind. Considering that, I was hoping that the interruption in her cycle was due to the internal injuries—that it would right itself in time. I saw no need to worry you needlessly. There were no other symptoms until now. Morning sickness is what ails her—right on schedule. The child will be born at the end of December. I cannot stress enough to the both of you that Sir John must not know. He's nowhere near strong enough yet to withstand a shock such as this. More than likely it would kill him."

  "But she can't have a child, George—she's mad,” cried the vicar.

  "He's right,” Colin put in. “You're a doctor. Tthere are ways . . . it's done on the quiet every day. No one would have to know. You could—"

  The back of the doctor's hand lowered hard across the boy's mouth cut him short.

  Colin staggered.

  The blow had caught him off guard and he lunged as he straightened up, but Elliot had jumped to his feet and put himself between them.

  "No, Colin—don't!” he thundered, with a firm hand on the boy's rock-hard arm.

  The doctor stood his ground. “For the sake of this man here, I'll forget what you suggested just now, young Chapin,” he growled. “Yes, I am a doctor. I save lives, I don't take them. How dare you suggest such a thing as that to me? Ha, I don't know why I'm surprised. It's just the sort of irresponsible, self-serving mentality I should have expected from the miserable likes of you."

  Colin wiped his split lip on the back of his hand. “She was raped, you pompous old hypocrite,” he spat at him. “You know where it happened. God alone knows what that is inside her."

  "It's a baby, that's what it is, and it's alive despite all I could do to prevent it at the time—hours after the fact, thanks to that flaw. There is nothing to be done about it now."

  Colin drew back his fist again, but Elliot tightened his grip. “Please, Colin,” he pleaded, “don't make this worse than it is."

  The boy's focus shifted to him then. Tears of rage welled in his teal-colored eyes, and the veins in his neck stood out in bold relief against his flushed skin. “Damn you, Elliot,” he spat through clenched teeth. “Damn you and your bloody pride!” Wrenching free, he ran out through the open terrace doors into the rain he had predicted earlier, and disappeared toward the stable.

  The doctor closed the doors behind him with a heavy hand. “What the devil was that all about?” he said, steering Elliot back to his chair.

  "He blames me for this, George."

  "You? Why, for God's sake? You didn't put that child in her."

  The vicar's eyes flashed toward him then, smarting with held back tears. “You don't know how I wish I had,” he said bitterly. “That's what he wanted me to do."

  "Ha! I'm not surprised. That young lecher thinks with his cock. It'll kill him one day, you mark my words."

  "He knew how I felt about his sister from the start. He begged me to tell her. But George, it was no use. She resented me for intruding—rejected me before I ever got here. He's right, you know. I had too much pride to subject myself to ridicule to no purpose. Right after I arrived she tried to seduce me. It was a cruel mockery and I put her in her place. I'm afraid that she might have tried the same sort of thing on whoever it was that raped her and gotten more than she'd bargained for. Colin thinks that if I'd seized the moment . . . demonstrated my feelings . . ."

  The doctor's labored sigh cut him short and spared him elaboration, but not the memory. “I'm sorry, Elliot,” he said. “I had no idea you felt this strongly for the girl."

  "George, before here . . . I didn't mean to suggest—"

  "I know that,” said Howard, dismissing the thought with a wave of his hand.

  "What I meant was, can she bear a child . . . as she is?"

  "Physically, yes, with the help of God, but unless the dementia passes she could never care for it. Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, eh? Let's take things one bloody crisis at a time. Right now I'm more concerned about you than I am about that. Christ on His throne! Open that blouse. I've seen mist with more color than you've got."

  Elliot
loosened his collar and blouse front, and the doctor leaned close with the stethoscope. “I have never heard rhythm like that,” he said. “I want you to go up and lie down. Take one of those powders I left you and rest, Elliot. I'll be here awhile. I want to instruct Mrs. Croft. I'll look in on you again before I leave, and you'd better be sleeping."

  Elliot got out of his chair. “Don't worry, George, I shan't die,” he said, “it's too soon. God won't grant me that kindness just yet, not ‘til He's extracted reparation. I should never have let Sir John interfere. I warned him then that God wasn't for sale. I was, and I'm going to pay dearly for that."

  "Rubbish!” the doctor barked. “My guess is that you had that weak ticker long before you ever met Sir John Chapin, but you're thick as a stump. Let me give you a bit of advice—don't punish yourself, the world will do that for you, and don't try to second-guess God. You won't do it. He's one step ahead of us. You, of all people, should know that. It's a damned bloody shame, all this, and my heart goes out to you, but God didn't do it and neither did you. If you're looking to fix the blame for what's happened here, put it where it belongs—on that broken old man upstairs. He's paying for it, but he's not paying God, my friend. Guilt holds the mortgage on that man's life. It's about to foreclose, and I won't see that happen to you."

  Elliot smiled sadly. “You know, George, you would have made a fine priest."

  "Ohhhh, no,” the doctor brayed, “I'm too fond of blasphemy for that, as I'm sure you've gathered. This is no sermon, it's just common sense. Something your head can't see for your heart in the way. You'd best brace yourself. It's going to get worse here, you know that."

  Elliot nodded. “There's one thing you could do to make matters easier,” he said. “If only you wouldn't be so hard on Colin. You shouldn't have struck him just now. He's suffering just as much as the rest of us. Does no one see that but me?"

  "Now you ask too much,” said the doctor. “There's no way you're going to accomplish that, Elliot, unless you keep him out of my way. He is what he is because nobody's been hard enough on him, and if he gets up my nose again here, he's going to rue the day he was born."