Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  It was nearly dawn before Malcolm's breathing lapsed into a calmer rhythm signaling a deeper level of sleep. He had finally stopped tossing and she eased herself to a sitting position and swung her feet over the side of the bed. The wardrobe stood only a few steps away, but it seemed like miles to her as she started toward it. She had just reached the foot of the bed when there came a shift in Malcolm's snores. He coughed and turned, seeking a different position, meanwhile leaking a string of unintelligible mutterings as he sank into a deeper sleep mode again.

  Jean clutched the bedpost for support. She tried not to breathe. Certain that the pounding of her heart could be heard over the mournful wailing of the wind rattling the windowpanes, she held her hand over her breast in a vain attempt to quiet it. Without stopping to think, she moved quickly over the creaking floorboards, knelt beside the wardrobe doors, and eased them open with a close eye upon Malcolm as she reached inside and groped for the riding boots. The first one she examined was empty. She was just about to slip her hand into the second when Malcolm stirred again, and she crouched frozen there while he shifted position once more.

  She glanced toward the window. The sky was lightening. There was no more time. He would wake soon. Scarcely breathing, she plunged her fingers deeper into the boot to discover that the insole was loose and her fingers burrowed underneath it until they closed around the document. Her heart leapt with the discovery. Only for a moment, for she heard the echo of Colin's voice telling her not to touch it before she lifted it free of the boot and tamped the insole carefully back in place.

  It was done. Without a second thought she discarded her nightgown, slipped on a gray twill frock that rose high enough at the throat to cover her wounds, and concealed the document inside her bodice. Then wrapping herself in the afghan she sank into the chair beside the hearth to wait for the bleak gray streamers of dawn to dilute the darkness. It wasn't a long wait. She'd scarcely begun to nod when Malcolm got out of bed, glided over the floor, and stooped over her. His cold breath brought her eyes open sharply, but it was a moment before she focused on his, narrow and hooded.

  "Up and dressed already, my dear?” he mused. “Trouble sleeping?"

  "The child is restless.” She pulled the afghan closer about her.

  Malcolm moved away and sorted through the pile of clothing in the corner for his trousers. “I don't give a bloody damn for your litter, Jean, except that you deliver it to me in fine form,” he drawled. “Do refrain from bringing it up unnecessarily. You daren't risk angering me now I warn you."

  "You asked me, Malcolm,” she snapped. “I merely answered truthfully.

  "Lie then,” he flashed, yanking a fresh blouse from the wardrobe. “Truth doesn't matter anymore."

  All at once great sheets of rain flowed down the windowpanes as though a hole had been rent in the heavens. The wind rose suddenly, and strong gusts hammered the shutters and rattled the glass. Jean's thoughts were like a seesaw then. She wanted to take comfort in the weather in hopes that it would deter Malcolm from pacing about on the cliff in those boots, but Malcolm fed upon dirty weather. Then she thought of Colin on his way to Truro in such a gale, and a new worry arose. It would surely delay his return. She watched with her breath suspended as Malcolm reached inside the armoire again and when his hand came out holding the boots her heart almost stopped, and she didn't catch her breath until he'd tugged them on and shut the wardrobe doors.

  She knew it wasn't likely that Malcolm would leave her unattended once he discovered that Colin was mysteriously absent. With a little luck he'd be worrying about that instead of the document and he might never even know that it was missing. And she prayed for that as they moved through the mechanics of the day.

  The vicar came at the dinner hour and stayed when he found Colin missing. Something wasn't as it should be, and he intended to know what it was if he had to spend the night. He arrived at the end of the meal and afterward they all went to the conservatory. But Malcolm was anxious to be rid of Elliot. He, too, was more than a little disturbed over Colin's absence. Jean could read it in his face, and she'd heard it in his voice when he'd questioned the servants earlier to no avail. Between that and Elliot's probing stares, the dark youth's patience had begun to erode.

  Unbeknown to any of them, Colin had instructed the servants to keep an eye on the vicar if he should come in his absence, and Kathleen and Elsie were hovering, lighting the candles, setting out the brandy and sherry, and starting a fire in the hearth to chase the penetrating dampness. While they busied themselves Elliot took a seat in the chair before the window.

  "Your jacket is still damp, Vicar Marshall,” said Jean bravely, earning herself a scathing glance from Malcolm. “Let me set it by the hearth for a bit."

  "That's kind of you, my dear,” said Elliot, “but I'm sure I'll be fine as I am."

  "Nonsense,” she insisted, “we can't have you taking a chill."

  "Let him be, my dear,” Malcolm warned through his teeth. “He won't be staying long."

  With that the vicar stripped off the jacket and handed it to her. “I shall be staying until your uncle returns,” he announced. He turned to Jean. “Thank you, my dear, it is quite damp at that."

  Relieved, for she wanted him to stay, Jean took the coat, draped it over the fire screen before the hearth to dry, and took her place on the sofa while Malcolm stood his ground between them twirling the stem of a snifter between his fingers.

  "So you don't know where your uncle has gone in all this?” Elliot probed.

  Malcolm shrugged. “The village no doubt.” He sniffed. “It's been awhile."

  The vicar ignored the innuendo. “If he left, as you say, before breakfast, I hardly think he's gone off to the village, Malcolm. But no matter, I'll have it from him myself soon enough."

  Malcolm's eyes had narrowed to slits, and his white skin looked transparent in the firelight. He seemed thoughtful for a moment, and when he spoke again there was a buoyancy in his voice as he changed the subject. “You haven't congratulated us on our news,” he said. “Jean here is with child, in case you haven't heard. What say you to that, good vicar?"

  Elliot looked him in the eyes, but made no reply. Repulsed at the thought of Malcolm's child in Jean's womb, he hid his distaste behind the rim of the sherry glass Kathleen had offered him. Thinking of Elspeth then, he shuddered visibly. Jean attributed that to the dampness and his wet clothing, but Malcolm knew exactly what was in the vicar's mind and his half smile broadened.

  "I had Jean up to my old nursery earlier,” he drawled. “That room holds many memories for me I dare say. I used to be shut up there with old Martha Harcourt as a child. You remember Martha surely?"

  Still the vicar made no reply and Malcolm's exhilaration peaked. “And then there was the time that Uncle dragged me up there after he brought me back from that dreadful school in Lancashire. Now you must remember that, good vicar. You nearly died that night as my memory serves me. You took a seizure after a fistfight with Uncle trying to save my life, no less. Could you possibly imagine I'd forgotten that?"

  Encouraged by the vicar's silence, for he knew he'd called up memories aimed to wound, Malcolm didn't wait for a reply. “My child will occupy that nursery soon, since for all his whoring Uncle's produced no offspring that he can claim evidently. That's quite extraordinary don't you think? His preference for married women is at the root of it I dare say. Clever of him actually, letting other men raise his bastards for him, I wonder how many he's got? Ha! I wonder how many you've baptized!"

  The vicar's silence fed the dark youth like the logs fed the blaze in the grate. He watched Elliot's jaw muscles twitch as he drained the sherry from his glass and delighted in the fire that lit the amber eyes raking him over the rim of it. Something hotter than the flames spitting in the hearth crackled in the air between them, and Jean shrank from it as Malcolm went on speaking. “My old cradle is still in good shape,” he said, “or I suppose I should say Uncle's old cradle. I think I'll have it padded for my c
hild, though. There is such a thing as carrying tradition too far."

  All at once the vicar felt a tightening in his chest and his breath became labored. He gave no sign except for a tremor in his eyes as it surprised him, and he instantly focused on his jacket draped over the fire screen, reassuring himself that his medicine was close at hand. A slight pain pinched his biceps and cold sweat began to bead on his brow, but after a moment the pain subsided and he drew an easier breath.

  Elliot realized that Malcolm was attempting to trigger another seizure just as he'd done before. He dared not let that happen and risk driving Colin further away when he was convinced that his friend needed him most. He saw the dark youth's attempt as a situation of mind over matter, and he tried to steel himself against it.

  But Malcolm read his strained expression and his complacent smile bloomed. “Well, you don't seem surprised, so I assume you knew about our blessed event. How did you hear about it, did Uncle tell you?"

  The vicar shook his head. “George guessed some time ago."

  "Ahhhh, I see,” said Malcolm. “He might have mentioned it to me. I told you all that she was looking poorly if you recall."

  "I thought you were shopping for a place of your own,” said Elliot steadily. “I should think that would be your first priority now that there's a child on the way."

  "I was,” sniffed Malcolm, “but I don't want to put Jean through a strenuous move in her condition. There'll be plenty of time for that after her lying-in period. Her health is rather delicate, and I do want to give my firstborn his best advantage after all."

  "You're certain it's a son you're expecting then?” said Elliot sarcastically.

  "Oh, no, not at all,” Malcolm contradicted, “Jean and I have just been discussing that very thing now that you bring it up. You see we've been deciding on names. If it should be a boy, we shall name him Malcolm after me, of course. If it should be a girl we shall call her Mary, after my mother."

  Elliot stiffened. All color drained from him and he struggled with the recall her name evoked. The tightening in his chest returned like a lead weight bearing down upon his lungs, siphoning them dry. He gasped as the pain came, ripping through his chest and biceps, and he pitched forward in the chair clutching the front of his blouse.

  Jean cried out and jumped up from the sofa. She took a quick step toward him, but Malcolm held her back. “Let him be, my love,” he said. “He'll be fine in a moment. Once he's caught his breath."

  Elliot tried to rise and failed, and Jean broke free of Malcolm's claw-like hold on her arm. “Your medicine, Vicar Marshall,” she cried, “where is it?"

  "Pocket . . . in my pocket,” breathed Elliot, gesturing toward his jacket beside the hearth.

  Jean found it just as Elsie came into the room with a fresh bottle of sherry, and the panicked maid seized the bottle from her hand and ran to the vicar with it.

  Paralyzed beside the hearth, Jean clutched the vicar's jacket close. No one was watching her, and in the blink of an eye she slipped the document from her bodice and shoved it into the pocket where the medicine bottle had been. It was done without thinking, and she ran to the vicar's side in time to take the bottle back from Elsie and tuck it away alongside the parchment.

  Elliot leaned his head back against the heart-shaped upholstery and groaned. “That's got it,” he said haltingly, “thank you both...just a twinge. I'll be fine in a moment."

  "Rest there,” soothed Jean, “no, don't try to rise, let the medicine have time to work first, please."

  "I'm fine, my dear, but I shan't stay after all,” said Elliot. He staggered to his feet, consulted his pocket watch, and turned to the maid. “My cloak, if you please, Elsie,” he murmured. “It's nearly half-past eleven, I must be off. Tell the master that I called and that I'll be ‘round again in the morning."

  "Let me help you,” said Jean, holding his jacket as Elsie hurried out. “I put the medicine back in your pocket."

  "Thank you, my dear,” he said, adjusting his posture. “Don't trouble, I'll see myself out.” With no more said, he strolled past them into the corridor gingerly, and Malcolm's half smile leaked a chuckle.

  "You are depraved!” Jean spat at him. “You were deliberately trying to kill that man."

  "All in due time, Jean, and his time is nearly up. It won't take much to kill him now. Uncle hasn't confided in him yet. He knows his heart won't stand the shock. By the look of him he won't last the week out, and neither will you if you don't shut that acid mouth. Now sit down and be still. I need to think. We'll give Uncle one more hour before we retire. He's up to something and I mean to know what it is. And I didn't miss your little performance just now, Jean. If that meddling old fool comes back into this house and you lift so much as a finger to help him, I will cut you both down. I am master here now and don't you forget it!"

  He burst into laughter then and Jean shrank from the unearthly sound of it, so cold it chilled her to the marrow. She said no more. Crouching on the sofa she began to realize what she'd done. Colin was right. The vicar wasn't strong enough to become involved in their dilemma, and that's what had to be. Her mind was racing. What if he found the document before they could get to him and explain it? He would surely come back. That could cost him his life, and all at once a new fear gripped her. Unaware, Colin was at a disadvantage and she was at fault. He told her not to touch it. But there was no way to rescind what she'd done, and as they waited she prayed with all her soul that her actions hadn't brought them all low.

  When the hour passed without event, Malcolm and Jean left the conservatory. They'd nearly reached the staircase when the double doors slammed shut at the end of the entrance hall behind turning them back again toward Colin stalking into the gallery. He pulled up short at sight of them, and Malcolm yanked Jean close against him and produced the dagger, tilting her chin back with it. No sound violated the utter still save the hollow splats of water dripping on the terrazzo floor from Colin's slicker.

  "Well now, Uncle,” said Malcolm after a deliberate hesitation, “I don't know what it was that took you out of here in such haste today, but in case you've forgotten . . .” With a firm grip upon Jean's arm, he spun her around and plunged the blade into her portrait on the wall beside the staircase. She cried out, but he ignored her, diving the dagger deeper, slicing the canvas diagonally.

  Horror-struck, Jean moaned, and when she sagged in Malcolm's arms Colin vaulted toward them.

  But Malcolm gathered her up in a serpentine motion, the blade denting her breast, and Colin froze in his tracks.

  "Don't provoke me to use this again, I warn you,” Malcolm snarled. “I'd reflect upon whatever it is you're up to, Uncle, if I were you. Just ask yourself if it's worth putting her in the graveyard."

  Then bursting into laughter at the terror on Colin's face, he bounded up the stairs and carried Jean semi-conscious to their chamber.

  * * * *

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  Chapter Fifty-one

  * * * *

  Upstairs Malcolm dropped Jean down on the bed and locked the door. She lay there dizzy and drained, weak for lack of sleep, yet the strong life inside her fluttered wakeful. All at once she heard the click of the old brass key in the wardrobe lock and her heart rose in her throat. The sound of him taking the boots off wrenched her eyes open, but he tossed them inside. She watched while he stripped off his shirt and trousers and threw them into the wardrobe as well. Afterward he strolled toward the bed. “Get up!” he snarled.

  Paralyzed with fear, she couldn't move. All but the child had ceased to function.

  "I said, get up,” he spat, hauling her to her feet. “Take off that frock."

  "No!” she shrilled, struggling to free herself.

  Grabbing her collar he ripped the dress down the front in one savage sweep of his hand. “Why didn't you tell me you wanted my help?” he snapped.

  Crying aloud, she clung to the fabric trying to hold the dress together, but a second attack of his crooked fingers le
ft her nothing to cling to, and she crouched shivering in terror with it stripped away.

  "Now the rest of it,” he charged, “or do I have to help you with that, too?"

  Jean darted behind the folding screen, her sobs in concert with his bursts of cold spasmodic laughter. Cowering there, she took off her underthings and tossed them over the top.

  "Now the shoes and stockings. Get them off!” he commanded.

  She tossed them toward him also and stood quaking with cold and fright while he gathered all her clothes together and tossed them into the wardrobe. Then yanking her nightgown out of the dresser drawer, he wadded it into a ball and threw it toward her. “Cover yourself,” he snapped, turning the key in the wardrobe lock, “the sight of that repulsive body provokes me to act upon my instincts before ‘tis time."

  Jean drew an easier breath with the boots locked away. While she slipped the gown on, she watched him slide the wardrobe key onto the chain about his neck along with the door key. That done, he plucked the dagger from the mantle where he'd tossed it and began toying with it. “Get out from behind there,” he spat, gesturing with the blade.

  Jean hesitated, watching the dagger catch stray glints of fractured light from the oil lamp on the dresser. After a moment she took a cautious step forward and moved from behind the screen.

  Malcolm chuckled sauntering up to her. “You little slut,” he said, flicking her hair with the blade, “you actually think you're special. I wonder how many more bastards he really has sired. I don't believe he could count them even if he could remember. ‘Tis a wonder he isn't diseased."

  "Put that knife down, Malcolm. Please!” she cried.

  "Frightens you does it, my dear?” he crooned. “You finally see that I know how to use it. But actually I really don't want to anymore.” He jabbed her middle with the blade. “My new plan conceived along with that brat in your belly is much more to my liking, Jean."