Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  Colin sprang into the hall at the sound of the shot. He reached the vicar in three strides and knelt down beside him.

  "Pocket,” breathed Elliot, gasping for air, “bottle . . . in my pocket. Blast!"

  Colin searched his jacket frantically, found the vial, and opened it, forcing some of the liquid through Elliot's clenched teeth.

  Harris and Amy came running, but Colin waved them off.

  After a moment the vicar was able to draw a breath and he struggled to his feet leaning heavily on Colin, and let him lead him to the conservatory.

  Colin eased him down on the sofa and stood back, staring down at his pasty color, and blue-tinged lips through wild eyes. “What's happened here?” he demanded. “What's wrong with you? What's this?” he cried, exhibiting the vial.

  The vicar laid his head back avoiding the terrible look of Colin then.

  "Answer me, goddamn you, Elliot! You're ill. What is it?"

  The vicar hesitated. But one glance toward Colin's lethal expression told him there was no use to pretend any longer, and he emptied his lungs on a long, defeated sigh that brought his posture down. “My heart,” he murmured.

  "Your heart?” cried Colin. “Since when? How long has this been going on? Goddamn you, answer me."

  "For some time actually,” said the vicar. “It seems I had a weak heart before I ever came out here. ‘Tisn't all that serious, Colin."

  "Not serious? Christ! Why have you never told me?"

  "I didn't want you to worry."

  "God rot your soul. How many attacks have you hidden from me, Elliot? Don't lie. Don't insult my intelligence. Tell me the truth or by heaven I'll wring it out of Howard! He has to be sent for in any case."

  "No,” cried the vicar. “I don't need him, Colin. The medicine's worked. He can't do anything more, and I'm all right."

  "Jesus Christ, how many seizures have you had?"

  "George began treating me with powders when the capstone fell on me at the ring. I evidently suffered a mild spasm out there."

  "That was fifteen bloody years ago,” breathed Colin, “and you're just getting ‘round to telling me about it now? Ha, you wouldn't be telling me about it at all if you hadn't come down at my feet would you? Jesus, Elliot, is that all I mean to you? Christ!"

  "Colin, please, if you want me to tell it, be still and let me. I haven't got the breath to argue with you."

  "Go on, then,” said a husky voice that riveted the vicar with chills.

  "I've had a few twinges over the years, but only one actual seizure—other than this here just now."

  "And when was that?"

  Again the vicar hesitated. “The night you brought Malcolm back from St. Simeon's."

  Colin's color left him and his piercing eyes shivered. “Not—not the night we fought?” he murmured, shaking his head in denial.

  The vicar nodded.

  "But—when? I was with you?"

  "It began when I was in your bed,” the vicar confessed. “I barely made it to the stable. Mrs. Croft made me a draught of foxglove and herbs, and Harris looked after me through the night while he tended Malcolm. It was a mild attack—really. I was quite recovered in the morning."

  "In the stable?” cried Colin. “You slept in the goddamn, bloody stable?"

  "I had to. I couldn't have George—I didn't dare let him see what you'd done to Malcolm. You'd have gone straight to jail if George had ever seen that child, Colin. He's itching to have at you."

  "Harris and Amy knew about this and they've kept it from me—deceived me in my own house? I'll wring their bloody necks—the pair of them."

  "No,” cried the vicar. “If you must revenge yourself, wring mine. I swore them to secrecy—to avoid the scene we're having here now."

  Colin thumped his chest. “I pay their wages, Elliot, not you. I expect loyalty for my money, and this is how they repay me? Christ Almighty!” He went to the sideboard where he poured brandy from the decanter into a snifter with a hand so wild it sloshed the liquor over the rim spattering his sleeves and the front of his rumpled blouse as well.

  "All that's in the past now, Colin. Let it lie,” said the vicar. Trying to take a deeper breath, he winced. “That vial . . . where is it?” he forced.

  Colin stalked toward him holding it out. He'd been clutching it in his fist without realizing it. Elliot took it from him, and he dragged himself back to the sideboard again.

  "George gave me this,” the vicar explained. “I believe it's magic. God, I could have sworn that was the end just now. I'm sorry about the wall, Colin."

  "The wall—the bloody wall? Forget the wall!"

  The vicar ignored him. “I couldn't breathe,” he said. “If you hadn't been there . . ."

  Colin spun to face him. Fear trembled in his eyes. Elliot had never seen it there before. “Goddamn you, if I'd known, you never would have had the first attack. Are you going to leave me, too, Elliot?"

  "No, I am not,” he assured him. “I'd have given anything I possess rather than have you see that just now. What's going on here, Colin?"

  "Jesus, what in hell does it matter?"

  "Colin, you were just very nearly shot to death here."

  "And you've been dying for years—for fifteen, bloody years, and you couldn't tell me."

  "I'm not dying, Colin,” said Elliot, swinging his feet to the floor, albeit shakily, to prove the point. “I've a weak heart. It obviously can stand a good deal more than anyone gives it credit for—believe me. I'm just getting a little too old for fisticuffs I expect."

  Colin stared at him from the sideboard. “You lie back down there, goddamn you,” he spat.

  "I'm all right—don't shift the subject. I want to know what happened here—now—from you, before Bradshaw gives me his version."

  Colin threw an angry arm into the air. “He caught us. Jesus, it doesn't take much to figure out how he knew, Elliot."

  "Malcolm?"

  "I'd wager my soul upon it,” snapped Colin. “That's twice he's tried to murder me. Didn't work, thanks to you, but he bloody near had your hide in exchange this time, my friend."

  "Well it's still intact, and I am all right."

  Colin stared into the vicar's strained face. He looked in dismay toward the shadow-stained hollows beneath his faded amber eyes that had robbed them of their sparkle, and the years passed before him. Passion wrenched a savage cry from his lips, and he spun and swept the top of the sideboard clean of the glasses and decanters set there with one swing of his arm, scattering liquor and splinters of flying glass over the slate floor.

  "Don't, Colin,” the vicar pleaded to his bent back. “That isn't going to solve anything."

  Blood-chilling laughter answered him.

  "Colin, one day you're going to be killed—or hanged, if you don't give this wenching over. God help you if you can't see what you're doing to yourself!"

  "There is no God,” groaned Colin. And stumbling over the crust of broken glass underfoot, he staggered through the arch and disappeared.

  * * * *

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  Chapter Twenty-five

  * * * *

  With Elliot's heart condition exposed, Colin withdrew within himself as the months passed, avoiding his company as much as possible. Elliot was lonely with Ted away at school and he visited Cragmoor often, but Colin invariably cut the visits short on one pretext or another, and he swore the staff to secrecy in regard to all house business where the vicar was concerned as well. He'd seen Elliot in the throes of a seizure once. He wasn't going to suffer it again.

  Elliot's fears had become reality, but the separation was so acute he'd begun to wonder if there wasn't more to it. In a constant state of surly black humor, Colin's caustic rebuffs stabbed him cruelly, and he looked upon the whole circumstances of their growing rift with melancholy dismay.

  Free with the tutor removed, Malcolm amused himself on the cliff and at the ring in his usual manner with equal passion, but the piercing onyx eyes and provocative h
alf smile had taken on a sinister look. Whatever dark thoughts lurked behind his mysterious visage, were his own; no one cared to probe them. It was as though he saw behind the eyes and into the minds of those around him with fox-like cunning and looked with amusement toward what he found there.

  Colin would watch unseen, chilled to the bone, as the dark youth literally inhaled the fogs and reveled in the squalls that battered the cliff with their pelting rain and hail-swept winds. For Colin found the sea's face ugly, though he was grateful to it, since Malcolm's preoccupation on the brink left him free to enjoy his own rambles in the soft, sweet grass and genuflecting heather. Relishing his solitude, he often wandered—fair weather and foul—over the endless reaches of moorland studded with stunted broom and twisted trees that lay lonely and desolate to the south. He could relate to such as it was. There was comfort in the emptiness as it paralleled his own.

  But Malcolm wasn't unaware of Colin's ramblings, nor were they as private as Colin supposed. Often the youth would lie hidden in the heather waiting to spy on his uncle. Crouching unseen, he would observe Colin where he lay, with or without one of the willing maids who sometimes accompanied him on his outings. So it was one late April day in 1881, three weeks after Colin's thirty-third birthday.

  Colin lay dozing in a tall bed of heather at the top of the crest in the south brake. Hidden from view in the hollow below, Malcolm was stretched out on his belly, watching him through the whispering grass. The day was warm for April, though overcast. Had Colin raised his head toward the west, he would have seen the sallow sky bearing down overhead, and the waterfowl flocking in clouds of pearl-gray frenzy toward sanctuary in lee of the cliff. But he remained oblivious as he slept peacefully there divested of his cloak, a half empty brandy bottle beside him in the heather.

  Milling currents combed his hair and riffled his cambric blouse. He didn't feel them, nor did he see Elspeth approaching from the south road crossing below parting the tall swaying grass with dainty feet. Freed from its customary restraints, her waist-long flaxen waves blew about her face falling from a center part, and the wind billowed the skirt of her gray frock wide revealing the slender, shapely body beneath.

  The Wythes had resided in the servants’ quarters since the fire that had leveled the gardener's cottage. Jacob carried out his duties as groundskeeper from there, and Abigail had served as scullery maid until her death that winter of pneumonia. Elspeth had taken her place.

  Reaching Colin, she brushed the white-gold hair back from her shoulders and knelt beside him in the heather watching him sleep. A gentle smile lifted the corners of her lips and twinkled in the bottomless hazel eyes admiring his still face. After a moment she reached out and ever so lightly brushed a lock of his hair that the wind had misplaced back from his forehead.

  Colin's eyes flashed open in the jaundiced mid-afternoon glare, and he lurched at the soft caress of her hand. It was a moment before his glazed eyes focused. When her face came clear, he slipped back in the heather again breathing a deep sigh of relief.

  "Elspeth,” he murmured sleepily, “what is it, child? Is something wrong at the house?"

  "No, sir,” she crooned.

  "Well, what is it, then?” he said, searching her face for some clue.

  "Do you find me fair, sir?” she said in a small voice.

  Colin laughed. “Indeed, I always have—ever since you were a bonny bairn. You've grown into a lovely young lass, child."

  "I am not a child, sir,” she informed him. “I am almost seventeen, and I love you, sir. I do."

  "Oh, Elspeth,” he scoffed through a chuckle, “with all the suitors you're bound to have calling, how could you waste your affections on the likes of me?"

  "Don't laugh at me, sir,” she said with passion. “I don't care what you do ta me. You can thrash me or send me away, but please don't laugh at me because I do love you, sir, I have since I was a very little girl."

  Colin stared. She was serious and he was incredulous. “Elspeth,” he breathed.

  "'Tis true, sir,” she said. “The maids—none of them love you, sir. They lie with Master Malcolm, just like they do with you, but I never have. I've never lain with anybody. I love you in my heart, sir—I always will. It's taken me that long ta get up the courage ta tell you."

  Colin gave a start. “What do you mean, they lie with Malcolm?” he snapped.

  "'Tis true, sir, I caught them at it myself—Kathleen mostly. I caught her twice at it, and Megan lay with him only last Thursday week up in the hayloft when Harris went off ta the village.” She frowned. “Not Elsie, though, she's too old I think."

  "Indeed,” spat Colin, “so are Megan and Kathleen."

  "I love you, sir, and I can say it without havin’ been with you, so you know ‘tis true."

  "Oh, child,” Colin scolded, “why I'm old enough to be your father. I was bedding women before you were born, girl."

  "You do not find me worthy?"

  "Worthy? Oh, Jesus."

  "Am I not fit, sir?"

  "Elspeth . . ."

  "I've seen you lookin’ at me, sir. I know you want me—I can see it in your eyes.” She got to her feet and unfastened her dress and underthings. Letting them drop to her ankles, she stood naked before him and knelt down again in the heather.

  Colin gazed longingly toward the firm, young breasts with their rosy nipples, and the soft, opalescent skin awash with a shower of silken hair, like spun gold in the fading light. “Oh, Christ,” he moaned, “don't, Elspeth. Cover yourself, child."

  Ignoring the command, she bent low pressing her dewy lips to his own, resting her warm, naked body against him. She smelled of primrose and honeysuckle, and her gentle hands pressed against his face were soft and cool.

  Aroused, he moaned. His arms slipped around her tangling in the loose, flowing hair, and he held her there enraptured. She seemed to melt against him and he gathered her closer still, caressing the firm, young breasts and slender back, like silk beneath his fingers.

  Her own hands fondled, stroking his hardness, and he moaned again holding her away. “No, Elspeth,. You are a virgin, child. Though I want you ‘til it torments me to death, I will not take a virgin—'tis a point of principle with me.” He snatched her clothes from the heather beside him and thrust them toward her. “Here—put these on and go back to the house at once,” he charged.

  "But, sir . . ."

  "Go now, Elspeth. Jesus!” Springing to his feet he raked his hair back from his brow. “You waste your love upon me—I am not deserving of it. I can never love you—or anyone. Have you heard me? I do not love you, child, I want you—there's a difference. You deserve a man who will love you in return."

  "And . . . if I wasn't a virgin?"

  "But you are, girl. I would not spoil you for naught—with no hope of love and comfort. It's too easily gotten elsewhere."

  "But ‘tis mine ta give, sir,” she protested, “and I want it ta be you. You've always been kind and gentle ta me, and, well, I'm truly frightened of it, sir—I am, but I love you and I wouldn't be frightened with you."

  "Elspeth, no. I will not let you bring me down below my level. Even my . . . intemperance has its limits. I may stoop to many things—debased myself in many shocking and unspeakable ways by others’ standards, but this I will not do."

  "That doesn't change anythin', sir,” she cried. “I won't stop lovin’ you—not ever.” Sobbing, she tugged her clothes back on and ran off over the moor toward the road.

  Colin followed her with his eyes until she disappeared in the tall, rippling grass behind a dip in the brake. Wiping his moist brow, he raked his hair back again, snatched up the bottle from the heath, and moved on to the east.

  Plodding over tangles of thorn hedge and bracken with his head bent low, he didn't notice that the sky had darkened, or that the wind driving at his back had risen sharply. Still aroused from Elspeth's caresses, he paid no attention to the waterfowl flocking farther inland now to the swaying grass and heather in the brake, nor did he noti
ce Malcolm's dark shape slithering away among them. He trudged on, wandering a good distance before he stopped at last and took a deep breath. It was heavy with the taste of salt, and he jerked his head around and saw the leaden sky bleeding toward him. “Blast,” he muttered, turning back into the face of the oncoming flaw.

  He'd gotten far afield of the south road, and on the open moor there would be no shelter from the threatening rain. Having risen steadily, the wind slammed against him and he drained the bottle, tossed it aside, and slung his cloak about his shoulders. The sweat had dried cold on his brow and he shivered, mumbling curses under his breath as he picked his way back through the heather toward the road. He hadn't gotten halfway when he noticed the vicar's trap clipping along the highway. It hadn't rained for several days and the dust rose in great clouds about the carriage churned by the spinning wheels and Ely's prancing hoofs.

  Running toward the road, Colin shouted, waving a wild arm, and Elliot pulled to a stop and waited while he bounded over the scrub and swung himself into the trap beside him. “Blast the luck,” he sighed, out of breath.

  The vicar laughed. “That's gratitude for you,” he said, snapping the reins. “Walk on,” he called to the gelding setting him in motion again. “It could be worse you know, Colin. I could have picked another day to pay my call. That sky is about to open up, and the wind's as mean as a cat-o-nine-tails."

  Colin offered a grunt. “Well, I see you've picked up some of Ted's nautical jargon in spite of yourself,” he said.

  "I'm trying, Colin."

  "Are you terribly disappointed he's leaning more toward a maritime future than a clerical one?"

  "Of course not,” said the vicar, “it's in his blood I expect. His grandfather has been involved with ships in one way or another since he was a lad himself. He's glamorized the life, of course, and Ted loves him. It could be just a phase I suppose—Ted's little romance with the sea, but if it's not I trust Giles to be an able mentor. Left to me, I wouldn't know where to begin with that."