Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  Something in that look weakened Jean's knees. She'd thought of little else but their conversation the night before, and her heart began to pound visibly against the bodice of her blue wool frock. Since they'd spoken, she'd lived in mortal terror that Colin would mention it to Malcolm. She even toyed with the idea of telling him herself before Colin had a chance, but she knew that was suicidal. There was nothing to do but wait, and pray that Colin Chapin was enough of a gentleman to keep silent.

  He knew she didn't want Malcolm to know they'd spoken together, but he didn't know why. She wondered if it would make any difference if he did know the reason. But she didn't dwell long on that prospect. Looking into those deadly eyes she was convinced he would have told him already in that case. What on earth did he think? No doubt that telling Malcolm would force a confrontation. But if he thought that, he'd surely tell. Colin wanted a confrontation.

  She wouldn't let herself think beyond that, but it was useless to try to hide her terror from Colin. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying her discomfort, and just when she thought she could endure his stare no longer, it shifted to the arch and the vicar entering through it.

  "Christ,” spat Colin under his breath.

  Elliot ignored him but for nodding a greeting, and went to the artist's side where he struck up a quiet conversation while viewing his sketch.

  Malcolm led Jean toward the easel and narrowed his eyes scrutinizing the artist's progress on the painting. “Well, Uncle, I see this is coming along,” he observed.

  Pouring a brandy at the sideboard, Colin offered no answer. He strolled to the hearth with it, where he stood with his back to the gathering balancing the stem of the snifter between his thumb and forefinger with painstaking control while he watched the leaping flames devour the logs in the grate through the cognac in his glass.

  Quick to notice the tension stretching Colin's blouse across his shoulders, the vicar moved to the sofa beside him and eased himself down on it monitoring the entire situation.

  Malcolm shrugged toward Colin's back and turned his attention toward the artist. “From what I see here, Mr. Stanley, it won't be long before you can begin to paint my wife,” he said. “I must say I'm quite anxious. You see it will be my Christmas present to Jean. This is our first Christmas together and I do want to give her something very special."

  Colin shuddered and stiffened all at once. “Jesus,” he spat under his breath.

  Ira worked nervous fingers fumbling with his cravat. “Oh, no, I'm afraid that's not possible, Mr. Chapin,” he lamented. “It will be a fortnight yet before this here is finished, and Christmas will be upon us before I can even hope to get a rough beginning on your wife's. Off the top of my head I'd say late January, or early February would be the earliest I could possibly promise completion."

  Malcolm laid a quick reassuring hand on the artist's sleeve. “Oh, I know that, sir,” he said. “I could hardly expect it sooner. My wife understands that, don't you, Jean?"

  Feeling the bite of his claw-like fingers pinching her arm, she nodded.

  The artist offered a smile of relief, passing his handkerchief across his brow and receding hairline. “I . . . I think I should certainly be able to manage in that case."

  He aimed his piercing eyes at Jean again and then turned back to Malcolm. “I've been meaning to ask you, Mr. Chapin,” he said, cramming the handkerchief back into his pocket, “I would like a softer look about the hair...something more youthful, with tendrils perhaps.” He illustrated, gesturing absurdly carving little circles in the air around his own face and turned to Jean with a neurotic little bow. “I mean no offense, my dear, but the way you've dressed it now is too severe. It gives you a matronly look that doesn't quite go with your features. On canvas it would add years I'm afraid."

  "Do you see, my dear?” crooned Malcolm. “I was telling Jean just last evening that she should do something different with her hair. I quite agree, Mr. Stanley, something soft with tendrils is just what I had in mind.” He smiled down reverently, stroking her plaits. “She has such lovely long hair,” he murmured. “I brush it for her each night before we retire. I love the touch of it against my hands. It has the feel of pure silk."

  Giving a start, Jean held her breath watching Colin spin toward them from the hearth. His eyes were narrow and cold. “How long are we to be subjected to your presence, Malcolm?” he demanded.

  "I'll have a brandy with you, Uncle,” drawled Malcolm, “but then I'm afraid I'll have to be off. I've some business to attend to before dinner, and I am looking forward to some privacy with my wife, after all. Since we arrived there's been so much going on that I'm afraid I've neglected her shamefully, haven't I, my dear?"

  "I don't mean this afternoon,” snapped Colin. “How long are you planning on staying in this house?"

  "I've told you, Uncle, not one second longer than it takes me to find decent properties of my own."

  Colin offered a crisp nod shifting his scowl to Jean. “Tell me, Mrs. Chapin,” he said, “have you asked him yet?"

  Malcolm's posture expanded and his grip on Jean tightened as she paled. A surge of palpitations moved her heart visibly beneath her bodice. Her pleading eyes shivered in terror toward Colin, but his own staring down the bridge of his straight Celtic nose devoured her. A prickling sensation crawled over her scalp. His arched brow, tilted chin, and lips pursed so tightly the blood had drained from them, spoke all too clearly that her pleadings were useless. “Oh, my God,” she murmured.

  "I can see that you haven't,” said Colin, triumphant. He turned his smug expression on Malcolm. “As I was telling your wife only last evening while you were out . . . riding, bastard, you really do owe her an explanation as to why you were sent packing four years ago, and as to why you are not welcome in my house. It might help her to understand some of the animosity between us. You see, from the conversation we shared, I gathered that this particular point is bothering her somewhat."

  The vicar began to rise, but without taking his eyes from Malcolm and Jean, Colin cautioned him against it with a gesture not to be reckoned with, and Elliot sank back down like a dog in obedience.

  "Can it really be possible that you are still trying to make me scapegoat for your own indiscretions?” sniffed Malcolm, indignant. “Since you feel that explanations are in order here, I should think you owe one to this poor man.” He gestured toward Ira, who fidgeted and shifted his weight from one foot to the other wagging his head in denial. “I'm quite accustomed to your ignoble conduct,” Malcolm went on, “but it's clear this unfortunate soul is not. For all that you are degenerate, Uncle, you've always managed to remain a gentleman in the presence of a lady. I see now that you've gotten beyond even that shred of respectability.” He turned soft eyes upon Jean. “Come, my dear,” he murmured, “I shan't subject you to this."

  He led Jean toward the arch, but turned back when he reached it. “When you tell your version, do be sure to tell it all,” he said. “Oh, and while you're about it, fill him in on some of the other sordid filth to your credit why don't you? Your peccadilloes make me look worthy of canonization."

  "You have to be dead first, Malcolm,” Colin thundered. “Now I might be able to help you toward that, but progressive as the Church is these days, I'm afraid it still doesn't canonize atheists—or the fly-blow of demons, either, bastard."

  "Come along, my dear, he's quite drunk.” Malcolm raked Colin with cold eyes. “We'll hope to find you've sobered into a more civilized humor by dinner, Uncle. Good afternoon, gentlemen."

  Sweating profusely, Ira hurried toward Colin as Malcolm and Jean left the room. “Y-you don't need to explain anything to me, sir. I . . . I have no wish to involve myself in your family affairs."

  Colin stood bending over him incredulous, his entire body bristling with rage. “Indeed not,” he breathed. “I don't need to explain anything to anyone—least of all you, Mr. Stanley. Would it be too much to ask that you take yourself out for a bloody walk before I lose my last scrap of composure and e
nd your convulsions at last?"

  "Oh . . . oh, yes, of course. Certainly, sir,” Ira stuttered. And giving a jerky little bow, he fled.

  Colin spun toward the vicar standing mouth agape behind. “Well, Elliot, have you finally nothing to say?"

  The vicar lost his posture. “Must you take it all out on poor Ira, Colin? My God, if you need a whipping boy, I'm quite used to your indignation. Ira's done nothing to earn your wrath."

  "Oh, he hasn't, eh? Elliot, if I am killed in all this it's going to be poor Ira's doing. Does that buffoon have a home somewhere, or does he just wander ‘round sponging off the gentry like a Gypsy beggar? We shan't debate that he eats like one. Where in the name of Christ did you ever meet such a hopeless wreck of a man?"

  The vicar's eyes saddened. “I've known Ira since my first post in London,” he said. “I recommended him to Giles for Emily's portrait, don't you remember? He's very talented, Colin. I've been trying to help him since I conducted the burial service for his wife and daughter after they died of typhus back in ‘61. He tended them day and night until they passed on, but he never came down with it and he's never forgiven himself. He's been a little high strung ever since."

  "High strung? The man's not strung at all."

  "Colin, can't you try and be a little more tolerant? You aren't the only soul in all of England who's suffered a loss you know, and the way you've been behaving of late you've no right to criticize anyone."

  Colin threw wild arms and clenched fists in the air in total aberration. “Ahhhh, Christ,” he roared, “that damned neurotic is driving me mad."

  The vicar hurried after him as he stalked to the sideboard and grabbed the decanter. “Get hold of yourself,” he cried, yanking it out of his hand. “Ohhhhh, no, you'll have no more of this. You need your wits about you here now."

  "I'm not drunk, damn you,” said Colin. “Somehow I can't manage that for all that I'll try. The bastard's face is in every glass."

  The vicar shook his head. “I expect we both knew this would happen eventually. My God, how I prayed that it wouldn't. I should think you'd have prepared yourself. You should have put him out the minute he came in, Colin."

  "I was prepared for Malcolm, Elliot. I wasn't prepared for his wife,” he snapped. “I was hoping, as you were, that the bastard wouldn't come back, if you want the truth. I thought that perhaps someone he might encounter in his travels would do him in and spare me the trouble. You know what he is. Christ, everyone can't be as lenient with such as that as we've been all these years. I should think that by now he'd have dug his own grave."

  "Malcolm has a face for every situation, Colin. Just look at how he's duped poor Ira and the girl, though that doesn't surprise me. He always had a way with women."

  "I won't stand much more of this, Elliot, I swear to you."

  "Why in God's name do you goad him so?"

  Colin threw up his arms again. “It's no use, Elliot, save your breath."

  "Colin, please, I don't want another scene with you. Just hear me out calmly."

  Colin let loose an infuriated growl and turned away.

  "Can't you see that he wants to be goaded? That aside, I feel sorry of that sweet, frightened girl. She's petrified of you."

  Colin spun toward him. “Good,” he blurted, “let her be petrified. Perhaps she'll convince that bastard to cart her out of here. Sweet, indeed—bloody whore."

  The vicar set the decanter down. “Why won't you put him out?"

  "Do you think for one moment that, but for her, I'd have let him stay five minutes in this house? I'd have taken him by the scruff of his bloody neck and flung him over the cliff by now if she weren't glued to his side. And don't think he doesn't know it—that's why he's stuck to her day and night."

  The vicar took an audible breath. “Ahhhh, so the gentleman isn't dead after all?” he marveled.

  Colin heaved a furious sigh. “Noooo, but he's breathing his last, Elliot."

  He refilled his glass and took a careless swallow. “I've made a mistake I'll own to that,” he said. “I've lost my opportunity. I never should have let him make the first move once he did get in. Stanley was made to order wasn't he? Blast the timing. And you! You want that twittering nincompoop underfoot don't you? You don't care how many commissions he solicits in this house because you think his presence here is going to stop me. Christ, Elliot, you don't know me at all."

  There was a moment of deathly quiet during which Colin began to pace raking his hair as though he thought the motion would clear his mind before he went on speaking with animation, “As it is now,” he raved, “the bastard's settled in using my house to his own convenience in having his slut of a wife's portrait painted, and not only am I subjected to the two of them, I'm forced to endure Stanley for God only knows how much longer. All I want is to be left alone."

  "All right, Colin, ignore him. Perhaps if he can't reach you he'll tire of the game soon enough. He's got a new pastime in that wife of his now after all."

  "Jesus, that's ludicrous. It seems we've tried that tack before, my friend, and look where it's led us. Tally up the deaths, and count the attempts upon Ted—upon me—upon yourself, goddamn you, and spout that horse shit why don't you?"

  "This is different here now, Colin. My God, I told you when he was little that it was going to be a dangerous game when he grew up. You should have listened to me and dealt with him then. As it is now you've got a serious situation on your hands, and you've got to control yourself. Ignore him and find some benign way of getting him out of here. I won't see you hang over the likes of that. The way you're handling this you're defeating your own purpose. You'll never be rid of him as long as he knows his presence here is driving you mad, and I think, God help you, Colin, that it really is. What's come over you—I've never seen you like this."

  Colin drained his glass and reached to pour another, but the vicar sprang forward and snatched the decanter from him again. “Here—that's enough of that. Give it here,” he demanded.

  Colin paced again, taking ragged strides across the slate floor. This time his path took him close to the artist's table, and he grabbed the tablet with Jean's sketch on it and stared down at the little man's drawing.

  The vicar moved closer. “If you won't put him out, ignore him, I tell you,” he pleaded. “Granted it may not work, but it's certainly worth a try, and at least it will keep your neck free of a noose until we can figure out something else. Give it a go—you're getting nowhere this way."

  "All right, Elliot,” Colin spat through clenched teeth, meanwhile clutching the tablet in white-knuckled fists, “we'll have it your way, but I warn you, I won't back down from that bastard. I'll tell you just what's going to happen—he's going to push me too far and I'm going to kill him—I'm going to have to, with or without a wife in tow."

  Growling like an animal, he tore the sketch and the tablet along with it to shreds in his hands.

  "Colin,” cried the vicar, lunging to retrieve it too late.

  Tossing the remains of Jean's desecrated face to the floor, Colin set loose another savage cry and sent the easel and his own portrait flying, missing the vicar by inches.

  Elliot righted the easel. He knelt gathering the torn fragments of Ira's sketch and lifted Colin's portrait from the floor beside the glass wall. Setting it back on the easel, he examined the stretcher to see that it hadn't broken, and stared down in dismay at the mutilated drawing in his hands.

  Looking on, Colin glowered. After a moment he stormed out of the room muttering a well-rehearsed string of curses under his breath, and the vicar tossed the crumpled papers down on the artist's table and followed him into the corridor, where he watched him enter the study slamming the door behind him.

  Walking through the shadows in pursuit, Elliot saw Megan hurrying across the gallery toward the study as well, and he hung back watching unseen while she entered the room and closed the door with a gentler hand. Hurrying along he crept close to the study door and leaned against it listening.


  Inside Colin had poured another brandy. Standing before the hearth with it, he breathed a nasal sigh in annoyance as the maid approached him and rested her hand on his rock-hard arm.

  "Why wouldn't you have me in last night when I come up ta’ yer chamber like we arranged, sir?” she murmured.

  "I wasn't in the proper frame of mind,” snapped Colin.

  Megan laughed and snuggled closer, caressing him familiarly. “Ye're always in the proper frame of mind, sir,” she chortled. But when she reached to stroke his face he jerked his head aside. “Here,” she cried, “are you ailin', sir?"

  "No,” spat Colin. “Jesus, bitch, don't paw at me."

  "Why won't you have me, then?"

  "I've a lot on my mind. Christ, Megan, don't harass me."

  "That's not what you usta’ call it, sir,” she purred, her seductive voice become throaty and mellow as she unfastened her bodice undulating voluptuously. “Here,” she murmured, crushing his hand against her breast.

  He stared down toward the creamy white skin overflowing his moist palm, the hard, dark nipple erect against it. Moaning, she fastened her hand in his hair and pulled his head down pressing warm, anxious lips to his own. She found them rigid and cold.

  After a moment he held her away staring into the hurt in her eyes. He studied her face and glossy dark hair, followed her graceful throat to the widespread corsage and the breasts trembling naked beneath. Rage flexed his stiff jaw and his cold eyes narrowed. “Do you know that you sicken me?” he said, shaking her. “Do you know that touching you turns my belly acid with bile, bitch? Christ, I offend my own body."

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Here, sir,” she sobbed, “what have I done?"

  "Done?” murmured Colin, dazed deep in thought. Sobering, he groaned. “You haven't done anything, Megan. No, you haven't done anything, girl. Just leave me alone. Don't come to my chamber again."

  "But, sir,” she cried, “what is it I done? It has ta’ be somethin’ I done what's displeased you. I've been comin’ ta’ yer chamber for nye on fourteen years. We was lyin’ together before I ever come out here ta work"