Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  The vicar waited, but Colin offered no answer, and when he continued his voice had become soft again. “Why are you letting him back in here, Colin? Why are you letting them stay on—what are you planning?"

  Colin staggered to his feet. “You don't listen do you, Elliot,” he said, swaying on unsteady legs. “I've just told you I'm planning to kill him!"

  * * * *

  After dinner that night the vicar followed Colin to the conservatory. Though Colin had bathed and shaved and put on the fresh clothing Amy had set out for him, it hadn't done much to hide the ravages of his stupor. The odor of alcohol still oozed from his pores and would for some time be detectable in spite of the spice cologne he'd lavished on to disguise it. The bloodshot eyes still stared from the sunken caverns beneath his sun-bleached brows. Without the whiskers, deep hollows were also visible under his cheekbones, for he'd lost weight, and his puffy lips were cracked and dry. There was no color in his face at all except for the sallow tarnish of drunkenness, and when he reached for the crystal decanter on the sideboard Elliot cringed, though he made no attempt to stop him.

  Settled on the lounge beside the blazing hearth, he watched Colin fill his glass and take a swallow. He watched him set the snifter down again while he snuffed out all the candles in their sconces with the palm of his hand before he took it up again and strolled to the glass wall with it, staring out absently into the darkness.

  Stars were twinkling overhead, and he leaned his head back gazing up at them quizzically. Like eyes spying from the heavens, they blinked down through the glass roof, and the vicar scrutinized him in the pulsing firelight. ‘No, my friend, you'd like to, I know, but there's no way to snuff them out', he thought with sinking heart.

  Colin had become so engrossed in the twinkling firmament that he'd nearly forgotten the brandy in his hand, and he sank into the upholstered chair and began to sip it, inhaling the bouquet.

  But the peace in that moment was short lived. Footfalls in the corridor outside set them both on guard, and the vicar watched Colin's hand tighten around the snifter as Malcolm came into the room with a firm grip upon Jean's arm.

  "Sitting in the dark are you?” Malcolm drawled strolling closer. The tremor of his footfalls made a hollow sound striking the cold slate, though Jean's hardly made any at all. “I can certainly see why,” he went on through a deep, guttural laugh. “Well, whoever she is, give her over, Uncle. You look a fright!"

  Colin didn't answer. He was looking at Jean. Their eyes met for an instant and she tried to muster reassurance, but her horror at the sight of him had drained her color, and he caught a glimpse of a wavering step as she fought to keep her balance.

  There was a gaunt look about her that pierced his heart. The brilliant green eyes, always so full of sparkle, had lost their luster. They stared now, dull and lifeless, smeared underneath with dark, opaque shadows, and her lips were like chalk in the soft semi-darkness.

  "Well, Uncle,” Malcolm began again, completely ignoring the vicar, who had gotten to his feet, “don't you want to hear all about our little holiday?"

  "Not particularly,” spat Colin, sipping his brandy.

  "A pity. You above all would appreciate it,” said Malcolm, turning to Jean, “wouldn't he, my dear?"

  The vicar approached them. He'd been watching Jean, and when she swayed a second time he was almost alarmed. “Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Chapin?” he interrupted, studying her as he ventured nearer. “You don't look at all well."

  Jean's lips parted to speak, but her eyes caught Colin's. What she saw there drained her senses, and she sank limp in Malcolm's arms before she could answer.

  Colin vaulted to his feet as she collapsed, though he held his ground, and the vicar ran to Malcolm's side. “My God,” he breathed, “I'll fetch George at once."

  "No!” snapped Malcolm, too acutely.

  The sound ran Colin through, and when he swallowed dry it seemed like an explosion in the deathly quiet that had settled over the room.

  "That won't be necessary,” Malcolm recovered, “she's just tired, poor thing. I fear I've quite worn her out."

  "Put her down on the lounge. I'll ring for Mrs. Croft,” the vicar directed.

  "I'll take her up to our chamber, thank you,” sniffed Malcolm. “If you want to do something constructive, have Amy bring tea there—that is if Uncle doesn't object. I see he's still as much of a cur as ever. He should be offering aid, not you. You aren't part of this household, though I dare say you'd like to be and obviously think that you are, but what you are is in the way. Stand aside, good vicar,” he hissed as he pushed past him, “my wife will survive without your meddling I assure you."

  Colin stood frozen before the glass wall, his face like a ghost in the darkness watching Jean's limp white hand dangling over Malcolm's shoulder, so stark against the black cloth of his traveling cloak as he carried her away.

  "She should have Howard, Malcolm,” the vicar objected angrily.

  "I shall be the one to decide that if you don't mind,” spat Malcolm over his shoulder. “She's my wife isn't she? If the doctor's needed I'll see he's summoned."

  Colin found his voice. “Let him go, damn you, Elliot,” he snarled. “Stay out of this. If he has need of a doctor he'll have to fetch one himself from Bodmin. I won't have Howard in my house again—never again."

  Malcolm's half smile broadened as he carried Jean out into the hall and left them with the echo of his cold laughter lingering behind.

  Incredulous, the vicar turned to Colin studying the expression in his eyes as they followed them even after they'd gone. “Colin,” he murmured, “you heard what George told you. She's pregnant. It could be serious, this. What can you be thinking? Have you lost all sense of chivalry?” He gripped his arm and shook it. “Colin, have you heard me? What in the name of God are you trying to do to that girl?"

  Colin turned toward him. “What am I doing?” he spat. “I'm killing her!"

  And before the vicar could stop him, he'd darted out through the little arched glass door in the corner and disappeared in the starry darkness.

  * * * *

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  Chapter Forty-nine

  * * * *

  Malcolm made no more visits to the village. When the whole month of April and nearly half of May passed, and he hadn't once left the house, Colin was beside himself.

  Jean's state of health seemed improved. Her color returned and the mask of dark smudges that clung stubbornly beneath her tired eyes was gone. But the fear, trembling deep inside them remained behind and, try though she did, she couldn't hide that terror from Colin; it was impossible.

  Her waist was thickening steadily, and she'd felt the flutter of life in her womb. With the advent of warmer weather it was no longer possible for her to hide behind her shawls to conceal what she was certain everyone could see. So desperate was her panic then that she'd almost decided to seek Colin in the wee hours while Malcolm slept, for the vicar had become a fixture in the great house curtailing Malcolm's movements. Determined to prevent the calamity he sensed, Elliot hovered day and night keeping a close watch upon all of them, Jean in particular, and the dark youth guarded her jealously giving her no more freedom than an arm's length of distance.

  Finally, just when Jean had begun to give up all hope that Malcolm would ever leave the house again, he did that very thing. On the afternoon of May sixteenth while the vicar was occupied at the church, Malcolm announced his plans to go into Cragmoor Village.

  Jean could barely wait until she saw him ride off from their chamber window, and once he was out of sight she hurried into the corridor toward the landing. She had no idea where she might find Colin at that hour unless it might be the conservatory or study below. Not having thought of anything except that she must find him, she hurried toward the staircase praying he hadn't gone out on the moors.

  Suddenly her heart began to race and she pulled up short at the top of the landing looking down at the gleaming terrazzo floor at
the bottom of the stairs. ‘How can I tell him this...how', she thought? All at once the prospect overwhelmed her and she inched forward until the toes of her slippers were over the edge of the step and curled them downward. Tears misted in her eyes, and the radiant pattern of the marble floor below swam before them. For a long, hesitant moment, she swayed there, staring at the fluid face of the gallery floor. It seemed to be reaching toward her, shimmering in the cold stream of light funneling down from the leaded window in the third floor landing above. With a slow, deliberate motion, she lifted her hands from the banister, and a soft desperate moan escaped her lips as she screwed her eyes shut tight and stepped off.

  "Jean!” came a thunderous cry from behind. Running out of the shadows from his chamber in the north wing, Colin reached her in seconds, and his strong right arm shot out encircling her waist. He pulled her hard against him just as she pitched forward, and they teetered there for a heart-stopping moment before he finally caught his balance and backed her away from the edge. “What in hell do you think you're doing?” he demanded, shaking her roughly.

  The desperate sound of his name distorted by her sobs answered him and he propelled her down the stairs and took her to the study. Sliding the bolt after him, he turned her toward him searching her face with wild eyes.

  Jean lowered her head, for even diluted by her tears she couldn't bear the terrible look of rage that burned toward her like acid.

  "Christ, woman! Do I mean no more than that to you, then?” he roared. “I know, Jean! I know you're with child. God help me, I knew before you went to London. Howard guessed. And I know what you were about to do just now—I saw you. You would do that to yourself—to my child inside you without one word to me?” He shook her again, ignoring her outcry. “Let the constable tell me, ‘oh, yes, poor child, too bad', he intoned, ‘by the way, did you know she was pregnant'? Is that all I mean to you, damn you, Jean? You could do that to me, to yourself—not to mention the child? Answer me!"

  His voice had reached a crescendo of ear-splitting thunder and she cried out again, shrinking back from it. “Please, Colin . . . you're hurting me!” she sobbed.

  "Hurting you?” he exploded. “Christ! Oh, Christ—hurting you. I ought to wring your bloody neck!” He groaned, pulling her close against him. “I never should have touched you. I had no right to take you—no right,” he despaired. “In my selfishness I've compromised my last shred of integrity and put your life at risk. My God, what have I done?"

  Holding her there it took a moment for him to sober. When at last he did, fresh anger boiled and he held her away searching her face. “What in God's name did you think?” he raved. “That I wouldn't want the child? Jean, that is my love inside you. Could you have destroyed that? Christ, will you answer me? Tell me I'm wrong—tell me something—anything, but tell me that up there just now didn't happen. Tell me you weren't about to throw yourself down that bloody staircase!"

  "Malcolm is going to know,” she sobbed, “and he's going to know whose child it is, Colin. It's only a matter of time and everyone will know. I . . . I thought if I were really to have an accident now . . . before he found out . . ."

  "And before I found out?” he flashed, impaling her upon a fierce-eyed stare she couldn't avoid, meanwhile thumping his breast with his fist.

  Jean gasped. “No, Colin, that isn't true,” she protested. “I wanted to spare you . . . and myself . . . and, God help me, our child. It's all so hopeless. Don't you see? I can't live without you now . . . or the child . . . or bear what he might do to it . . . or me. I thought if I were already dead, he couldn't . . . Oh, Colin, no matter what, he's going to kill it! I'd rather be dead than faced with that."

  "And what of me? You haven't much faith in me have you? You've no right to make such a decision. It's my child, too!"

  The pain in her eyes sobered him again and he gathered her close against him. “Ahhh, God,” he groaned, soothing her gently. “I don't mean to hurt you. I'm half mad with this. I have been for months."

  "What are we going to do?” she sobbed.

  He held her away. “You're going out of this house right now, Jean! You should have gone that very first night when I told you to. We haven't much time. Go and get your things,” he charged leading her toward the door.

  "No!” she cried, resisting.

  Rage seethed in Colin's eyes and he let her go. For a moment he stood stock-still, glaring toward her in a daze. Then raking his hair he turned away and began pacing back and forth taking long, aberrant strides over the Persian carpet. Stopping at last before the beveled mirror hanging beside the liquor cabinet he studied her reflection in the glass, and a roar came from him that turned her blood cold as he drove his forehead and white-knuckled fist into the mirror with all his strength. It was a heavy piece, attached by a satin rope cord from the ceiling, and shards of thick French glass flew from it scattering in all directions.

  "No, Colin. Don't!” she cried, but it was too late.

  "Get . . . your . . . things,” he pronounced.

  Jean gasped and made a quick move toward him, but he stiffened, a silent snarl twisting his lips, and she threw the bolt and ran sobbing toward the staircase.

  Colin wiped the blood from his eyes and his posture collapsed, as he looked in dismay toward his abstract reflection in the broken mirror. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at the weeping lump on his forehead, then wound it around his hand, cinching it tight with his teeth.

  There was a decanter on the pedestal table and he took a snifter from the liquor cabinet, filled it, and flushed some of the brandy down roughly. He lifted it again, but this time he didn't drink from it. The glass froze midway to his lips as Malcolm propelled Jean through the open study door holding his dagger at her throat.

  Colin threw down the glass and took a step toward them, but Malcolm's voice stopped him in his tracks. “Ah-ah-ah, Uncle! Stand where you are, unless you want to see me cut this pretty throat here,” he warned, denting Jean's neck with the blade.

  "Let her go, bastard,” snarled Colin.

  "Or what?” Malcolm chided. “What will you do, you pathetic cripple? You can't even help yourself, much less her."

  Colin lunged again, but Jean's scream halted him. “Please, Colin. Do as he says,” she pleaded.

  "Very good, my dear,” Malcolm erupted. “Spoken like a dutiful wife.” He tilted her head back with the blade. “There may be hope for you yet."

  Whimpering, Jean shrank away from the dagger's sharp point, and Colin saw a thin trickle of blood begin to flow down her neck as she struggled. Every muscle in him tensed as Malcolm steered her toward the pedestal table where he dropped a folded piece of parchment he'd been holding underneath the dagger beside the decanter without relaxing his grip, then moved back quickly dragging her with him well out of reach.

  Colin's eyes were deadly, oscillating between the parchment and the blade at Jean's throat.

  Malcolm nodded toward the table. “Read it, Uncle, and sign,” he spat.

  Colin snatched up the document, whipped it open, and read it quickly. Tossing it back on the table, he laughed. “A transfer of ownership of Cragmoor from me to you?” he marveled. “I'd sooner set the place afire. I won't sign that, Malcolm."

  "Oh, you'll sign all right,” Malcolm promised, “if you can still use what's left of your good hand there, that is.” He nodded toward the bloodied handkerchief wrapped around it. “You see, Uncle, my child must be assured of a suitable home."

  "It's not your child, Malcolm."

  "Ahhh, but it will be, Uncle,” the dark youth triumphed, “and I'll raise it with the same love and affection you've showered upon me over the years."

  Rage expanded Colin's posture and he desperately sought an opportunity to spring, but Malcolm gave him none.

  "Sign that!” he snarled, tightening his grip on Jean dramatically. “We haven't consummated our marriage as yet you know. If you don't sign that at once I'll take her right here in front of you!"

  With no more
said Malcolm ripped Jean's bodice open and groped the trembling breast beneath, meanwhile nicking her throat with the dagger again as she cried out in terror of the molesting fingers.

  "Keep that mouth shut, my dear,” he warned, “or I'll shut it for good and all."

  Jean whimpered uncontrollably, her eyes wild with fright, as his cold fingers tore her underwaist away and seized the naked breast beneath.

  Colin grabbed the document and carried it to the writing desk.

  "No, Colin!” she shrieked. “Don't sign that. Don't!"

  But he had already scrawled his name at the bottom of the page.

  "Back away,” said Malcolm. Shoving Jean forward, he crimped her fingers around the pen. “Now you sign, my dear, where it says witness."

  "I won't witness this, Malcolm,” she cried in defiance.

  "Sign it!” Malcolm roared.

  "Do as he says, Jean. For God's sake, sign the damned thing,” Colin thundered.

  Jean scribbled her name shakily, and Malcolm snatched the parchment from her before the ink had dried. “Now then,” he said, sweeping her toward the door, “this little transaction is between us three. Should the servants or the good vicar get wind of it before I'm ready, she will die and you will watch it happen—I needn't tell you how. For the moment, as far as anyone knows, you are still master here, and as you've just read I've generously provided for you to stay on, which I know you will do, to watch your child be born and raised in true Chapin tradition."

  He beamed excitedly, and the onyx eyes shone in the half light spilling in through the terrace doors. “As long as you behave, no harm will come to her,” he went on. “Were I to have her now she'd surely lose the bastard in her, and I don't want that. I want it to live. So take care, Uncle, you decide its fate—and hers."

  Jean had nearly lost consciousness and he jerked her sharply. “Cover yourself, you're disgusting,” he snapped, dragging her toward the door. But he stopped on the threshold turning back to Colin, who stood flushed with fear and rage, his bloodied fist clenched at his side. “Oh, by the way, Uncle,” he drawled, “you'll have to choose another mount for your whoring excursions in future. Exchequer is no more."