"Cook's a prize,” said Malcolm smoothly. “Now if we went through cooks as we do maids, Cragmoor would be in a sorry state. Uncle has this . . . habit . . . of tiring out the help you see.” He gave a spasmodic laugh. “Old Cook's safe enough I suppose, though. Who are you diddling now, Uncle? Well, that's stupid of me. Who else could it be but Kathleen, since poor Megan's . . . departed as it were, unless, of course, you've taken a fancy to Elsie? No, I don't think even you would succumb to such as that.” He thought for a moment in retrospect. “Ummmmm, fiery little wench, Kathleen."
"You ought to know oughtn't you, bastard,” spat Colin.
Malcolm glowered darkly. “You used to flaunt your conquests, Uncle,” he said. “What's the matter—getting old at last are you?"
Nobody spoke and Malcolm began to laugh, gently at first in short, thoughtful rasps that soured to a snarl. “You see,” he said, addressing the gathering, “Uncle is quite the cocksman I'm afraid, if you'll excuse a rather crude expression. I really don't know that any other puts it quite as well. And he does like his creature comforts I dare say. It's such a dreadfully tedious ride to the village, after all, and now . . . considering his arm . . . Oh, and speaking of the arm—or lack of, Uncle, do you find it a hindrance in bed or is pity worth the inconvenience? Put forth a little extra effort now, do they—your sluts?"
Silently observing until then, the vicar rose to his feet and flung the contents of his water glass in Malcolm's face. “You foul-mouthed bastard,” he thundered in a voice none of them recognized.
Malcolm wiped the water from his eyes, and Colin vaulted from the carver's chair tossing his napkin into his plate with a savage hand. Jean cast him a pleading glance, and her breath gave in an almost audible ‘no', but he ignored it, skirting her chair as she got out of it. By the time she was standing he'd fastened his fist in Malcolm's collar, grabbing flesh along with it and lifted him out of his chair. A well aimed foot kicked it out of the way. It fell, toppled over at their feet and he threw Malcolm down beside it.
Jean sprang back and cried out as Colin fell upon him there delivering a shattering blow that echoed through the hall with an ear-splitting crack, and blood gushed from the dark youth's nose and sneering lips spraying Colin's cuff and face and blouse front with red spatter.
"Murdering scum,” snarled Colin breathing hard. “I need but one arm to lay you in your grave!"
Springing around the table to his side, the vicar arrested the raised fist set to strike again with both hands and Colin brought them down along with it delivering another blow.
Elliot winced. “That's enough!” he thundered in that same unfamiliar voice as he wrestled with the bloodied fist. Then close in Colin's ear, “You've got an audience here! Are you mad?"
"Goddamn it, Elliot, let go!” Colin bellowed trying to shake himself free.
The artist had dumped over his coffee as he leaped up from the table. “B-bigod, he's run amok,” he whined, dabbing at the stain on the tablecloth with his napkin.
Swaying, Jean sank back down in her chair again. Drained weak, she moaned and tipped over her water glass as she groped toward it.
"Oh, Mrs. Chapin,” cried Ira, hopping around the table toward her. “Oh, dear, come and lie down,” he coaxed, helping her up.
She moaned again and sagged against him as he steered her toward the lounge across the room and eased her down upon it. Then running back to the table, he grabbed his own water glass and hurried to her side again splashing some over the floor in his haste.
Elliot sucked in his breath. Colin was buffeting him as they struggled. He had a firm grip upon Malcolm's collar, holding his head off the floor. Enraged, he strained against the biting fingers clamped around his wrist. “Goddamn you, let go, Elliot,” he commanded. “You fool! Stay out of this. Don't make me hurt you!"
But the vicar held fast and sank to his knees for a better grip, his breath coming in short gasps and his complexion drained white.
Colin saw his discomfort and he hesitated crouching there, his broad chest heaving. All at once a primitive cry escaped his lips. His stranglehold tightened momentarily, and then with one last savage thrust he flung Malcolm down and staggered to his feet. But the toe of his polished boot, seeming to have a mind of its own, sought and found the dark youth's groin and dug in hard with all the power in the long, sturdy leg driving it, doubling Malcolm over on his side as it came at him a second time.
Elliot pulled himself up alongside with the aid of the table leg behind him and took a fresh grip on Colin's rock-hard arm. Breathless, he stared down toward Malcolm's narrowed eyes and bruised face smeared with blood. “You asked for that, bastard, and it's far less than you deserve,” he panted. “Just look at your wife there!” he roared, gesturing toward Jean prostrate on the lounge scarcely aware that Ira hovered over her rubbing her wrists and fanning her wildly. “But for her I'd have let him have you, and helped him at it. When you make your trip to London, Malcolm, stay there—for your own bloody good. You can take that as a threat, because that's just exactly what it is."
"Spare me your sermon, good vicar,” snapped Malcolm, dabbing at the blood oozing from his swollen nose. Clutching his groin, he managed to raise himself on one elbow.
Colin's eyes were deadly. As Malcolm moved, the vicar felt the muscles tighten in the arm he tethered, like steel bands stretched to their limit of strain, and he tightened his grip instinctively.
"You've a pretty good right there, Uncle,” said Malcolm, flinching as he flexed his jaw, “a pity it caught me off guard. We might have had an interesting contest, your . . . infirmity notwithstanding. I'm impressed."
"That might yet be arranged,” Colin served, casting Elliot a poisonous glance. “As a matter of fact, if I were you I'd count upon it,” he went on. “You see I intend to make certain hereafter that the vicar is no longer lurking about to protect you."
Malcolm looked into Elliot's granite face. His eyes were dilated with pain, but his voice was steady as he spoke, “It appears I owe you yet another debt of gratitude, good vicar,” he snarled, stretching his neck. “You can do me one final service before he sends you into exile, if it won't set the Church back too drastically, go and fetch Dr. Howard to see to this nose—he's finally broken it."
"Good Lord,” breathed the artist, through a muffled gasp from across the room.
Colin wrenched his arm free of Elliot's hand with a barbarous yank. “Not so much of a hindrance, at that, is it, bastard—my ‘infirmity'?” he spat. “A pity it wasn't your neck."
Malcolm tried to laugh, but the pain cut it short and the motion sent his hand to his groin again. Colin dismissed him. His eyes darted toward Jean. She had raised herself to a sitting position and sat watching the scene, her face so blanched that she seemed like a ghost peering out from the shadows, for she read his thoughts clearly.
Fear and rage smoldered in his riveting stare, fear over the prospect of her alone in London with Malcolm, and rage that the vicar had put himself in the way again and robbed him of what he knew was certainly the last opportunity he was likely to get to put an end to the nightmare before Malcolm spirited her away. Exertion had drained him weak and he cursed under his breath. Sharp needles of pain ripped through the stump of his severed arm and vertigo threatened his posture. This he dared not let any one of them see. “Christ!” he roared, raking his hair back roughly. And as the spinning floor began to rise up toward him, he pushed the vicar aside with a rough hand all but throwing him down, and stalked out of the dining hall.
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Chapter Forty-seven
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It was over an hour before the vicar returned with George Howard. He'd driven the doctor out in his trap to save time, not wanting to leave Colin any longer than he had to with the dark youth in his present state, given the bloodcurdling shadow of mortality that had fallen like a shroud over Cragmoor then. Once he'd sent the doctor up to tend Malcolm, he dragged himself to the conservatory t
o wait.
Colin had gone there himself as the vicar supposed he would. It was dark in the room but for the hearth glow and the candles flickering in their stand before the wall of glass. The tall flames danced above their thick beeswax shafts casting glittering reflections in the panes and painting the upholstered chair before them with soft puddles of golden light that seemed an invitation to Elliot as he entered.
A strong wind had risen out of the southwest. Leaning heavily upon the shivering glass, it moaned making a mournful sound in the darkness, black and smooth as velvet. Colin stood before the glass wall staring out into the night, a half empty snifter in his hand. At the sound of the vicar's tired step, his head snapped toward the arch and anger worked his rigid jaw as he watched him approach. “Don't start on me, Elliot, I'm warning you,” he snapped.
Defeat ruled the vicar's posture and he shook his head wearily sinking into the chair with a sigh. He was utterly fatigued. His hair seemed grayer with the candlelight playing upon it, and Colin noticed deeper lines etched in the furrowed brow that had once been so smooth and proud as he watched him lean his head back against the heart-shaped upholstery and shut his eyes.
For twenty years Elliot had avoided that chair. To him it had always seemed occupied. He had always seen Mary sitting there. To go near it would have seemed an intrusion—an exorcism. Sitting there now his heart sank and he sighed again, feeling that he had violated something almost sacred—dispossessed her spirit from its home. The scent of violets drifted close from the shadows called, as it always did, to attend his reveries of Mary. Something stirred in his loins and he shifted his body in the chair with a gentle moan.
Bittersweet, the memories crept closer and a cold, prickling chill attacked his spine as he saw her lying ravished in the blustery darkness at the ring. Tears welled in his eyes as he felt again that limp, savaged body cradled in his arms, and he swallowed audibly around a constriction that parched his throat and forced his eyes open suddenly. But that didn't chase the images. Still they came called and recalled, as ever they had been, by a heart failing now for the pain of the years that had passed since.
Colin had been watching in silence. The anger had faded from his face, and just for a moment when the vicar's eyes focused, he looked like a little lost child. When he spoke, calm had come into his voice, but the expression had vanished. Shame had taken its place. “I've hurt you,” he murmured. “I didn't mean to, Elliot. Something snapped—I don't know."
"Doesn't matter,” said the vicar. “I'm all right, getting a little too old for tilting I think, though.” He laughed, unconvincingly. “I'll be stiff as a coat rack tomorrow."
Colin searched the faded eyes that avoided him, deeply. “What's happened to us, Elliot?” he murmured. “Where have we got to with all this?"
"I don't know,” the vicar regretted, “Colin, I just don't know anymore."
"What were you thinking about just now?"
The vicar hesitated. “Mary,” he said, lowering his head.
Colin dropped his own head low. “You've never gotten over that have you—not even a little?” He knew.
"No,” murmured the vicar.
"I'm sorry. I was hoping that with Emily, toward the last there..."
"It wasn't the same."
"But you did love her, Elliot?"
He nodded. “Yes, but it wasn't the same. I couldn't make you understand, Colin, you've never been in love with a woman."
Colin's voice exploded in a bitter supplication that passed the vicar by. He staggered to the Tudor table and leaned against it, unwilling to trust his knees to uphold him then. Half sitting there on the edge of it as he had when he'd posed for his portrait, he meditated the brandy in his glass as he swirled it, teasing the curve of the snifter absently.
"Colin, I wanted Mary in exactly the same way that you want your women,” said the vicar, “with the same lust, the same passion, but I wanted her totally—her spirit—her heart. Her body wouldn't have been any use without the rest, not really.
"If I had taken her in lust—and don't think I wasn't tempted—there'd have been nothing but emptiness in it. If I had freed her spirit and had none of the rest I'd have died for want of her. And if I'd had her heart, Colin, I could have lived a lifetime without anything else. It would have been enough."
Colin sipped his brandy in silence. He dared not trust himself to speak.
"It was different with Emily,” the vicar continued. “There are many different kinds of love, Colin. Emily was something to be admired—cherished, if you like, but not used up. She was like some rare oil in a porcelain urn that mustn't be squandered because it could never be replaced. I loved her, but not with passion, with gratitude and always with reserve. It wouldn't have been that way with Mary. With her I could have given myself completely, taken her completely, and come away from it knowing that I was myself complete as a man.” He shook his head. “I've always felt guilty over that. Emily held nothing back. She gave of herself so willingly—heart, body, and spirit, but she was cheated, Colin. She never had mine and she knew it—and why."
Colin drained his glass. “Mary was a damn fool,” he snapped.
"No, Colin, I was the fool,” the vicar contradicted. “I was too afraid of humiliation to expose my heart and risk watching it become shredded before my eyes. I was so afraid of pain—so afraid of hopelessness, and I've damned myself to live with just that all my life. That's where pride has taken me, my friend. You said it once, ‘damn you and your bloody pride.' I believe those were the words you used."
"Elliot . . ."
"I'm not berating you, Colin—you were right. I've told you on a number of occasions that my pride held me back if you remember, and don't think I haven't scourged myself for it every day since this nightmare began. But it's too late for that now. It doesn't change anything and I'm living a hell you couldn't possibly imagine."
"Try me,” probed Colin guardedly.
The vicar emptied his lungs and lowered his head. He was clearly weighing his response and it seemed an endless moment before he spoke. When the words finally came they were whisper soft, the mellow resonance of the voice that delivered them reduced to a slow murmur. “All right,” he began, “you know that I am devastated by guilt . . ."
"Go on,” urged Colin through the vicar's hesitation.
But then Elliot hedged. “Bear with me, Colin,” he said. “This is not an easy thing for me to speak about. That's why I've never broached the subject with you before."
"'Tis time, Elliot. Go on—please."
"You know, of course, that I've always blamed myself for Mary—all of it, but I blame myself for Emily, too. I asked that wonderful woman to marry me, and I found myself . . . impotent. It was five long months before our marriage was ever consummated."
Colin stared. There was nothing in his face.
The vicar looked away. “I knew Emily was in poor health,” he murmured, speaking haltingly. “I knew she was frail, Colin, and one night just before she took that chill, the one that weakened her so, I hadn't come to bed. I was in the graveyard and she came out there to fetch me. It was there that I offered her an annulment. I didn't know what else to do. I hadn't been able to make love to her. I . . . I just . . . couldn't. I never meant to hurt her. I thought I was doing her a kindness actually. The upshot was . . . she ran from me. When I caught up with her she begged me to tell her what she had done wrong!
"I don't know, something more duty, pity—something more in the line of compassion than passion aroused me. I can't tell you what it was exactly, and I took her then and there on the heath—in all that blasted damp. Colin, I don't know how Ted was ever conceived unless it was that night. Oh, I put up a good pretense afterward, bloody sham, but I . . . I couldn't, and yet the mere thought of Mary . . . And I was plagued with guilt because that specter, no more than a wraith, a ghost . . . intangible . . . invisible, could bring me to a full arousal while Emily—so alive, so warm and loving, could not. Oh, yes, I was guilty, it's true, but not
guilty enough to give up the haunting...nor am I to this day."
Speaking his heart had broken him and brought his posture down. His voice became softer still and emotion choked the words to hoarse whispers in conclusion. “When George told me I didn't cause the lung fever that night on the moor, it didn't lessen my guilt, for I knew I hastened her death, and I've never forgiven myself, Colin, nor shall I—ever."
Colin's misty eyes shivered toward him in the candlelight. For a moment he stared without speaking, the silence so thick between them then that the sound of it was deafening—a roar like the sigh of a living entity. “I was wondering when you were going to get ‘round to telling me all that, Elliot,” he murmured at last.
Like lightning the vicar's head came up and his faded eyes came open wide. Astonished, he gasped. His lips trembled apart, but it was an awkward moment before the voice trapped inside issued an intelligible sound. When the words finally did come another gasp released them. “You know?” he breathed. “Did George . . .?"
Colin shook his head. “No, I'd like to pin it on the blighter, but no, Howard hasn't betrayed you. I was listening outside the study door when you told him all that. Doors are a waste in this house. All they do is give the inmates something to lean on while they eavesdrop. I joined those ranks early on, goddammit."
"Oh, Colin!"
"I thought it likely there might be something in that conversation you might withhold from me. I had no idea, of course, that it was going to be anything like . . . like that."
Elliot moaned and dropped his head into his hands.
Watching him sparked Colin's anger. “Why didn't you come to me, Elliot?” he snapped bitterly. “Why didn't you tell me? My God, I was so hurt. What in the name of Christ did you think I'd say to you?"
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