"That's better,” he said. Strolling to the chair nearby, he sank into it watching.
One by one, Jean laid her frocks across the bed. When she snatched a conservative two-piece dress of brown serge from the lot and started toward the folding screen, Malcolm's deep voice knifed through the stillness, “Not that one, my dear,” he said. “The bodice rises much too high at the throat.” He craned his neck scrutinizing the assortment and pointed. “The green tarlatan, I think.” he decided. “Yes, that will do nicely. We must put forth a little extra effort for Uncle you see."
Jean picked it up and examined it. It was a gauzy dress in a pale shade of mint green, with a tunic edged in black satin ribbon. A large satin bow rested on the bustle, and the neck dipped daringly low exposing the shoulders and cleavage.
"This is a summer ball frock,” she snapped, “it isn't suitable."
"I say it is. Put it on—now."
Terrified of the look in his eyes, she backed toward the folding screen again, but his cold voice froze her in her tracks. “Stand where you are—where I can watch you,” he charged. “Go on, take off that frock."
Jean hesitated. “You are vile,” she breathed.
But that set him on his feet. He left the chair with a sinuous motion and approached her. His eyes were deadly, and she turned her back and began unfastening her basque with hands that felt as useless as paddles.
Malcolm spun her toward him. “Here, let me help you,” he said in concert with the cry on her lips. With sharp, pinching fingers, he unfastened the rest of the buttons and tore the basque away staring at her breasts straining against the underwaist beneath. His familiar fingers probed the thin cloth for her nipples and she shrank from them, shuddering. He laughed as he unhooked her skirt and let it fall at her feet. “All right, my dear,” he said, “put on the gown."
She turned quickly away from his leering eyes and wriggled into the dress. Moving toward the mirror over the dressing chest, she studied her image in the glass while fumbling with the hooks in back. “I won't go downstairs like this,” she said. “It isn't appropriate, Malcolm. I look like a trollop."
He strolled closer, pushed her hands aside, and fastened the hooks himself. “I'll decide what's appropriate,” he said, jerking the corsage down lower off her shoulders, “and do something with your hair, it's too severe."
"My hair will have to stay as it is,” she snapped haughtily. “That fire's not hot enough for the curling iron."
"Put something in it, then,” he said. “I know just the thing.” Fishing a cluster of green velvet ribbons from the trunk, he turned her facing away and began shoving them into the folds of her plaited chignon. When the last was in place, his claw-like fingers slipped down and clamped fast to her bare shoulders. Bending like lightning, he pressed his lips to her throat and sucked hard, bruising the flesh.
Jean cried aloud and pulled away, her trembling hand soothing the puffy red welt his cruel mouth had raised.
Tugging on his dress coat, Malcolm laughed. “I told you, my dear,” he said, “we do have to make a special effort for Uncle. I assure you he'll appreciate that bruise there. God knows he's left enough of them in his time. I'll be sure to seat you where he can view it properly."
Tears welled in her eyes. She began to flush, and he laughed again buttoning the last button on his jacket and squared his shoulders.
"You are an animal,” she breathed with passion.
"Indeed,” he said, hooking his hand around her arm. “Now then, my dear, only speak when you are addressed, then choose your words wisely—and wipe that look off your face. You're supposed to be the blushing bride, remember? See that you act like it.” He wrenched her closer until she felt his cold breath puff against her ear. “Just keep in mind that we're coming back to this room—and to that bed after dinner, Jean. Now...shall we go down?"
* * * *
Ira and the vicar rose from the lounge beside the hearth where they'd been chatting as Malcolm led Jean into the dining hall. Colin, however, remained seated in the carver's chair ignoring them altogether while he sipped the Burgundy from his goblet. Jean avoided eye contact with him. As terrified as she was, she stared in awe at the endless reaches of the breathtaking room instead. She had never seen anything like it, and she held her breath as she moved silently along on her husband's arm.
Malcolm flashed a triumphant smile at sight of the empty chair on Colin's right and quickly ushered Jean to it, taking his seat beside her as Ira and the vicar took their places across the table.
Chills gripped the vicar's spine watching Colin's cold teal eyes seething toward the girl. He watched him grip his goblet in a white-knuckled fist—saw him drain the glass and pour another with a careless hand. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Malcolm's half smile and eyes narrowed on his uncle, and he lifted his own wine glass and drank from it absently.
The grating sound of Ira's nervous voice pierced the silence, setting loose an exasperated sigh from Colin's flared nostrils. “G-good evening, Mr. Chapin—Mrs. Chapin. May I say, dear lady, that you're looking lovely this evening?"
Colin's eyes, struck with astonishment, flashed in the artist's direction, and Malcolm pressed a firm hand on Jean's arm. “There, you see, my dear?” he crooned, “I told you to choose that frock.” He glanced toward Ira. “My wife didn't want to wear this gown tonight,” he said. “She didn't think it appropriate, but I insisted. It becomes her so, and it's quite my favorite."
"Well, I heartily agree, it's most becoming, indeed,” said the artist.
Malcolm's smile broadened watching Colin's poisonous scowl all but shut his eyes, and he took a sip from his goblet. “Mr. Stanley,” he said on an audible breath, “we've had a look at the portrait..."
"Oh, dear,” the artist interrupted, “it isn't quite ready for viewing just yet."
"One would never know it, sir. I must say you've done Uncle justice. It's quite good, indeed. My wife is particularly impressed.” He ignored Jean's head snapping toward him. “In view of that, when you've finished I should like you to begin one of her if you aren't otherwise engaged. She evidently admires your work, and I'm afraid I can't deny her anything."
"Why, I . . . I'd be delighted, sir,” Ira gushed.
"There, now, does that please you, my dear?” murmured Malcolm seductively. He brushed her temple with gentle lips, meanwhile squeezing her arm cruelly.
Jean nodded her lowered head, flushed crimson with shame under Colin's eyes burning toward the angry bruise on her throat.
"If you'd permit me, sir,” ventured the artist, “I should like to paint her like that if I may. The color brings out the coppery lights in her hair; most flattering, indeed."
"Ahhha, it's plain you know what you're about,” said Malcolm. “I'll leave all that entirely up to you, sir."
Watching Colin, the vicar paled, shifting in his chair, and he would have spoken if it wasn't for the diversion the maids provided entering with the soup course.
"Well, I thank you, sir,” said Ira. “You won't be disappointed I assure you. ‘Tisn't often I'm fortunate enough to find so charming a subject. If you could only see some of the ghastly horrors to my credit you would well appreciate my delight."
Malcolm leaned back as Megan set the soup plate before him. Dark and handsome, in her late thirties then, she shrank quickly away from him and moved on to Jean.
"Come now, Mr. Stanley, surely it can't be as bad as all that?” said Malcolm.
"Oh, but it is, sir,” the artist contradicted, grating his soup spoon against the bowl in a manner that set Colin's teeth on edge. “Why, I could stand your hair on end with some of the crimes I've committed on canvas to please them.” His eyes twinkled toward Jean. “It is indeed a pleasure at last to be spared such indignities."
Malcolm laughed. “You've a handsome enough subject in Uncle here. He's quite magnificent in spite of himself I dare say."
"Indeed,” Ira agreed, “but for that dreadful sulk I'm trying to erase. It spoils the whol
e mood I'm striving for you see."
Malcolm burst into laughter, setting Jean atremble, and the vicar on edge as he watched Colin stiffen. It was a moment before the dark youth had recovered enough to reply. “Oh, but sir, that's part of his charm,” he chuckled, “you mustn't erase if. You'll lose Uncle's whole essence if you do."
The artist cast a sidelong glance toward Colin's deadly stare and began to perspire. Taking out his handkerchief, he mopped his forehead. “I-I shouldn't want to do that, but in the meanwhile, I'd like to make several rough sketches of your wife for my reference before I begin the actual portrait."
Malcolm offered a patronizing nod.
"If she could just sit for me . . . eh . . . several brief sessions are all I shall require,” he continued, monitoring Colin's expanded posture. “We'll have to have them late I fear,” he went on quickly. “I'll need all the light for painting and it's dark by four you know. I often do landscapes out of doors between commissions, and it's occurred to me that God gave the artist all he'll ever want to paint here in Cornwall, then took the light away before a man's had half a chance to see it. ‘Tisn't important for the sketches, though—the light that is; no colors to contend with.” He gave a grunt, agreeing with himself, and finally raised his spoon.
Stretching his neck, Colin sighed in relief and took up his own spoon, forcing it through rigid lips.
"I'm sure that can be arranged,” said Malcolm, with a close eye upon Colin himself. “I'll bring her down whenever you wish."
"Oh, capital,” Ira rejoiced. “You see I do not know the lady, therefore the composite sketches will give me an opportunity to familiarize myself enough with her character to capture it effectively on canvas—most invaluable really."
Malcolm turned to Colin. “You don't mind do you, Uncle?” he taunted.
"You're paying for it."
Malcolm ground out a dry laugh. “I wonder about that."
"Don't waste your energy, bastard, you're going to need it."
"Oh, I shan't—waste it, that is, I assure you, but do let's try and be affable. I'm putting forth an effort after all. You know, I must say you're certainly looking well. What have you been doing with yourself in my absence?"
"Enjoying it,” Colin sallied.
Malcolm burst into another fit of hearty laughter, and Jean began to tremble again. Reading Colin's body language, the vicar cleared his voice and shifted his attention in Jean's direction.
"Mrs. Chapin, you are American?” he said, answering his own question.
"Yes,” she murmured timidly.
"Where did you make your home?” he probed, eyeing Malcolm closely.
"Th-the coast of Maine, sir,” she faltered.
"Ahhhh,” said the vicar, nodding deeply. “You were married there, then?” He caught Colin's arched brow and puzzled expression.
"Yes, sir,” she said in the same small voice.
A moment of utter silence came over the room.
"In the church?” thrust the vicar, up-tilting a chin set like granite.
Malcolm stiffened as the mock affability dissolved, and his cold eyes pierced Elliot through. Looking on, Colin's lips began to curl in a sarcastic smile over the rim of his goblet.
"No . . . sir,” said Jean, setting her spoon down to quiet its rattling against her plate, “we . . . we . . ."
"We were married aboard ship by the captain before we left the harbor, vicar,” spat Malcolm, desecrating his office. “There wasn't time before the ship sailed to do it on land, and we were so . . . anxious you see."
The vicar flashed Malcolm a knowing smile, but his attention quickly returned to Jean. “Are you perchance of Anglican persuasion, Mrs. Chapin?” he asked her.
"My . . . upbringing has been Episcopal, yes, Vicar Marshall,” she forced.
"Ahhhh, I'm so glad, my dear,” Elliot rejoiced. “You must have your husband bring you ‘round to St. Michael's then, while you're here—since you are so close by. I'm sure you'll find the experience most . . . enlightening."
Colin's smile broadened and he lifted his glass toward Elliot in silent tribute.
The maids had begun collecting the soup plates and setting the meat course before them. Staring past them toward the vicar, Malcolm's sneer turned sour, and his thick lips parted baring canine teeth. “My wife is aware I do not believe in God, vicar,” he pronounced. “She does not preach to me, and I do not hinder her in her beliefs."
Elliot offered a crisp nod. “That being the case, then you shan't mind bringing her to service soon, since...I think you said...'you can't deny her anything'? I shall be looking forward to seeing you both.” He saluted them, draining his goblet, and dismissed Malcolm altogether, addressing Jean again. “And what do you think of England, my dear?” he said, refilling his glass.
"I really haven't seen enough of England to answer that, sir,” she said steadily.
Something in his soft amber eyes put her at ease despite the turbulence rocking the exchange. She sensed something lying beneath the surface—something that smelled of death. She could taste the hatred between the vicar and Malcolm, but unlike Colin, Elliot hadn't transferred that hatred to her. There was comfort in his presence, though it did little to stop her hands from trembling.
"No, I don't expect you have as yet,” said Elliot, “but you should feel quite at home here on the Cornish coast. Cragmoor cliff itself is strikingly reminiscent of the rugged coast of Maine so I'm told."
"I-I'm afraid I . . . I don't like the sea,” she murmured.
"My wife is quite hopelessly afraid of the sea I fear,” Malcolm put in. “It is the only point upon which we fail to agree.” He raised her hand to his lips, while looking over the smooth white fingers toward Colin. “I was quite taken with the coast of Maine myself,” he went on, releasing her, “but you're wrong about the resemblance. It could never compare to Cragmoor—nothing could."
"Nothing you'll live to see,” snarled Colin.
Jean had reached for her wine glass. At the caustic sound of Colin's voice so close in her ear, her trembling hand lost its grip and the goblet tipped over, its contents spreading toward him in a wide, blood-red circle.
"Jesus Christ! Clumsy, bloody, slut of a whore,” he muttered under his breath, though she heard.
Springing to her feet, she dabbed at the stain on the white linen cloth with her napkin, hopelessly trying to blot up the wine and her blunder along with it.
Ira and the vicar rose, but Colin remained where he was, scowling toward her from the carver's chair.
"Oh, my dear,” Malcolm soothed, on his feet now as well, “you needn't do that. It's all right, the maids will take care of it."
Jean turned toward Colin, meeting his terrible eyes. Her lips worked for a moment before they parted. She stood paralyzed with fear aching to cry out help me—my God, I despise him as you do. But there was no help for her in those eyes. They were cold and deadly, and she longed to be out of their reach. “I . . . I am so sorry,” she murmured toward his flexed jaw and arched brow. “Forgive me, please. I'm afraid I'm not feeling all that well.” She lowered her head to avoid the cold daggers of Colin's outrage. “If I may be excused, I should like to go up and lie down."
Malcolm pulled her close in his arms, the pressure was crushing, and his fingers bit hard into her skin. “But, my love, you haven't finished eating yet,” he protested.
"Please, Malcolm. I'm really not hungry."
"Yes, of course, my dear,” he soothed. “I'm so sorry, Jean, you do look wretched. Go along, then, I'll be up directly."
Malcolm followed her with his eyes as she fled the dining hall making sure that she mounted the staircase. The vicar and Ira resumed their places again, and the artist began to attack the food on his plate with gusto.
Still staring after Jean, Malcolm took his seat at last. “I hope she hasn't taken a chill in this blasted climate. It's not as damp as this in the States."
Colin vaulted from the carver's chair. His fist came crashing down on the table sloshin
g the vicar's wine over the rim of his goblet, and causing the artist to completely miss his mouth with a forkful of meat, which landed with a splat in his lap. “How much, Malcolm?” he roared.
"I beg your pardon, Uncle?"
"How much will it cost to be rid of you this time?"
The vicar's eyes oscillated between them. Meanwhile, the artist whined, his own head bobbing back and forth as he mopped at the greasy stain on his trousers with a trembling napkin.
"Uncle, I think you're being quite unreasonable,” said Malcolm coldly. “I've nowhere else to go until I've found a place of my own. We can't very well lodge at the inn; it's no more than a whorehouse. I'll pay for our keep if that's what's bothering you. I'm well able you know, though I can't imagine why I should. This was my home until four years ago. I just want to remain until I've made other arrangements. Surely you can't object to that. It's hardly too much to ask. I am a Chapin after all."
"Don't lean too heavily upon the Chapin name, Malcolm, it won't support you,” snarled Colin.
"My mother was a Chapin."
"And your father was a rapist! That makes you a bastard, and speaking of bastards, have you told your precious wife why you were put out of this house in the first place? Does she know about Elspeth?"
Springing from his chair, the vicar skirted Ira and approached Colin taking quick steps. “Colin, please,” he pleaded.
"Stand where you are, Elliot—don't interfere.” He stayed him with an outstretched hand while not taking wild eyes from Malcolm. “Perhaps I should tell her for you,” he continued. “She really ought to know don't you think? Elspeth is dead, bastard. She hanged herself in the stable the night you were packed off."
Malcolm shrugged. “Pity,” he sniffed coolly. “If you must carry tales like a common scullion, go right ahead and tell her, Uncle. You might get the story straight first, though. It really doesn't matter either way actually. We love each other, you see. You'd have to be blind not to have gathered that, and it will make no difference what you tell her I promise you.” He smiled. “You know, I think I'd like to see you do it. I would quite thoroughly enjoy seeing you make an ass of yourself."
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