by Stella Riley
‘I won’t. Not ever – unless you choose to tell me. You also thought I might feel differently about you? I don’t. It wasn’t your fault and wouldn’t have happened at all if I’d been here.’
She scarcely heard the last sentence. All she could think was that he would feel differently if he knew. Guilt lay like a stone on her conscience and a poison in her heart. She ought to tell him and be prepared to see his eyes condemn her before he walked away. Say please, say please, say please. The words rang in her head over and over, along with her own response. The single word that, more even than the rape itself, had left her defiled and unfit.
She wanted to vomit. Instead, she blurted, ‘I’m sorry. Ashley … I’m so sorry.’
‘For what, love?’
He reached out to take her hand but before he could touch it, she was off in a flurry of skirts to the other side of the room.
She said, ‘No. You mustn’t. I c-can’t bear it.’
The words were like a punch in the face but he kept both his expression and his tone perfectly level. ‘You can’t bear me to hold your hand?’
‘No.’ She folded her arms tight across her middle and bent her head so that he couldn’t see her face. ‘I can’t … I don’t want …’
‘To be touched?’
‘No.’
At all? he thought. Or just by me? But he didn’t say it because he was afraid what her answer might be. He could comprehend some of the possible reasons she might feel like this and he’d known since he walked into the house last night that it would be a very long time before she’d be ready for intimacy. But he’d never expected her to refuse the comfort of his arms. He had thought she’d burrow into him as she had once before and let him hold her safe. The fact that she wasn’t going to … that she was deliberately shutting him out, cut straight through to the bone.
Naturally, he didn’t say so. Instead, he stood up and said simply, ‘I’m sorry you feel that way. But, if it’s what you want, then of course I’ll keep my distance.’
The pain inside her was clawing its way out again. She thought, It’s not what I want. It’s what I deserve. But said tonelessly, ‘Thank you.’
Ashley inclined his head and crossed to the wash-stand.
‘I’d better move my gear back upstairs.’
Athenais lifted her head, her eyes wide with misery and shock. Stupidly, she hadn’t considered this. And suddenly, despite everything, she couldn’t bear the thought of him being in a place that suddenly seemed very far away; a place where she couldn’t see or hear him. Without stopping to think, she said, ‘No. Don’t.’
And that was when Ashley realised the full extent of her disorientation … and that realisation made him forget his own hurt. He said gently, ‘I can’t stay here, love. You can see that, can’t you?’
She could but she didn’t want to. The very idea of his leaving sent panic rushing through every nerve.
‘Couldn’t you … sleep in the other room? Just for a little while, until …’
He almost said, Until what? But he was beginning to suspect that there was a lot more going on under the surface than he might ever know and that, as yet, putting her under even the slightest pressure was harmful.
‘I’ll do whatever will suit you best and for as long as you wish. You have only to say.’
She closed her eyes against the tears she refused to shed, unaware that he could see her throat working to contain them. Then, opening them again, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t say that. You have nothing to apologise for – and certainly not to me.’
The tears came then, in a silent involuntary cataract.
‘I do. I just don’t know how.’
Watching her, with pure rebellion seething in his heart, Ashley did one of the most difficult things he’d ever done. He put his hands in his pockets and kept his promise.
* * *
He spent a largely sleepless night on the couch that they’d restored to its proper place after Nick had left. The thing was too short for him and therefore by no means comfortable but he’d slept in worse places so it wasn’t that that kept him awake. What did was wondering if Athenais slept and, if she did, whether she would be plagued by nightmares; and then the question of what, if she was, he could do about it.
He stayed out of her way while she washed and dressed, hearing her familiar movements about the room and wondering if a night’s rest had wrought any significant improvement. Since he had to show her Archie’s body, he didn’t think it very likely. The day, he suspected grimly, was only likely to get worse.
By the time he followed her downstairs, she was sitting at the kitchen table being bullied by Pauline into eating something.
Athenais said, ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You said that yesterday. Eat your egg.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘I didn’t ask if you wanted it.’ Anxiety overlaid by impatience, marked both Pauline’s voice and expression. ‘I asked you to eat the damned thing.’ She stopped, seeing Ashley lurking in the doorway. ‘And you’re as bad. To my knowledge, the only thing that passed your lips yesterday was half a bottle of wine. So sit down and have some bread and cheese.’
He took the seat opposite Athenais and, with a lop-sided smile, reached over and sliced the offending egg neatly into quarters before cutting himself a piece of cheese which he most assuredly didn’t want.
‘Four bites, love. That’s all. And if I can do it, so can you.’
She sighed and stared down at her plate. Then, slowly but with determination, she ate.
* * *
The cellar was lit with as many candles as they’d been able to spare and Sergeant Stott lay on a raised board in a circle of them. Followed silently by Pauline and Francis and keeping Athenais behind him to block her view until they were on flat ground, Ashley led the way down the stairs. He didn’t know exactly what to expect – but he had a strong feeling that it wouldn’t be good.
He was right. The instant Athenais clapped eyes on her father’s body, she stopped dead and gave a strange, almost unearthly howl, then immediately stopped it with her fingers. She stared and stared out of huge, dark eyes, her breathing fast and ragged.
She swayed and Ashley had to stop himself reaching for her and let Pauline support her in his stead.
At length, Athenais whispered, ‘It’s true. I didn’t believe that it could be … but it is.’ And then, taking a few more steps towards the still body, she said in English, ‘Oh sodding ’ell – you daft old bugger. What’ve you gone and done? You wasn’t supposed to go like this. You was supposed to be around plaguing me for years yet. And now, ’ere I am telling you I love you when you can’t ’ear me no more. Ain’t that just like you?’
Pauline, understanding the tone rather than the words, swallowed hard and Francis stared fixedly at the floor.
Ashley, forcing himself to remain perfectly still when all he wanted to do was hold her, said, still in English, ‘He can hear you, love.’
Without turning her head, she said, ‘Maybe. But I oughta told him afore now.’
‘I think he knew.’ He paused and then added wryly, ‘And if there’s any consolation to be had here – and God knows, there isn’t much – at least he went the way he’d have wanted. In a good, honest fight … and fulfilling his promise.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
SIX
Two days later, under a lowering sky, they buried Archie in the churchyard of St Julien and on the following afternoon, Athenais returned to work. Thanks to Pauline listening to all the gossip in the Green Room and Francis paying apparently random visits to anyone he knew in the boxes, it soon became clear that, although there was some speculation about the Marquis d’Auxerre’s current whereabouts, nobody seemed particularly worried. As yet, his body didn’t appear to have washed up anywhere – leading Ashley to hope that, by the time it did, it would be unrecognisable. And no one was linking his name with Athenais.
‘So far, so good,’ observed Francis to P
auline.
And, ‘Long may it last,’ came the typical reply.
For Athenais, the first week was an unending struggle and the second one, scarcely less so. Off-stage, she had to force herself to do all the usual day-to-day things that no longer had any meaning; but life on-stage was somehow a little easier, though she knew her performances were no better than adequate. And at night she drew comfort from Ashley’s quiet, undemanding presence on the other side of the door.
She didn’t know what that quiet, undemanding presence was costing him. She didn’t know that his every sense was attuned to her smallest sign of progress, or the lack of it. Nor did she know of the lengths he went to in order to avoid any awkwardness arising from his occupancy of the dressing-closet. He simply existed in a sort of limbo composed of watching and waiting. And hoping.
Ménage Deux was scheduled to go into rehearsal during the last week in January and, with the exception of Pauline, was due to be completely re-cast. Having already been taken to one side by Froissart and asked, bluntly, what the hell was the matter with Athenais, Pauline went to Francis and said, ‘Given what she’s been through, it’s amazing she’s able to go on-stage at all. But the usual flair is missing and by Act Five, she’s exhausted. So I wondered how you’d feel --’
‘About her playing either the wife or the mistress? Of course. Which would be best?’
‘The mistress. The role is lively and flirtatious with just the right under-current of avarice and spite.’ Pauline looked at him searchingly. ‘Are you sure? If she doesn’t recover her form, it will harm your play.’
‘She’ll be fine. And even if she isn’t, it’s a small price to pay,’ he shrugged. ‘Getting over what happened is bound to take time. We all know that – and Ashley more than any of us. Beneath the relaxed veneer, I suspect it’s crucifying him – so anything we can do to help has got to be worth it. And then again,’ he added with a grin, ‘you must know that your slightest wish is my command.’
Accustomed by now to his habit of masking sincerity with a flippant manner, Pauline looked up at him and sighed. Then she did what she’d wanted to do for a very long time. She pulled his face down to hers and kissed him.
Francis, who had been waiting even longer, took full advantage, holding her hard against him and letting his hunger show. When they finally broke apart, Pauline let out a little huffing breath and said, in what was meant to be her usual tone but came out sounding confused, ‘Well.’
‘Well, indeed,’ murmured Francis. His chest was rising and falling rather more rapidly than usual and his eyes lingered on her mouth. ‘Very much so, in fact. You’ll need to tell me what I did to deserve it.’
Unbelievably, she felt her cheeks grow hot. She didn’t think she’d blushed properly for more than ten years. Struggling for some semblance of composure, she said, ‘You offered to sacrifice something that means a great deal to you for the sake of our friends.’
‘Oh – that.’ He stepped back from her, his expression changing. ‘I owe Ashley a debt. Not just for his help when Celia died but also for the fact that, if he hadn’t got me away after Worcester, I’d probably still be rotting in an English prison. As for Athenais, it was my play that gave d’Auxerre his opportunity – so I think I owe her something, too.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘But if it earns me more rewards like this one, I’ll happily sacrifice anything you like.’
* * *
The news that she was to be cast in Ménage Deux brought the first glimmer of a smile to Athenais’s face in two seemingly interminable weeks. And when Pauline and Francis insisted on making her work on the role at home as well as at the theatre, she was left with little time in which to think and brood and worry.
Her courses came and, just like the first time, she shed tears of relief in private. Then, without quite realising it, she took the first tentative steps on the road to recovery. The first sign of this was when she awoke one morning to a thought which ought not to have been surprising but somehow was. It occurred to her that she’d survived rape once before … survived it, moreover, when she’d been much younger and had had no one to turn to. Logic said that, if she could do it once, she could do it again. A few days later came the realisation that, if she couldn’t fight her way out of the thicket of thorns that currently surrounded her, she was giving the Marquis more power from beyond the grave than he’d ever had in life. Worse, he’d wanted to hurt Ashley and here she was, busily doing it for him. Somehow, she had to stop. She had to find a way of stiffening her spine … and shutting the Marquis away in some hidden corner of her mind until she could think of him without wanting to curl up in a dark hole and stay there.
During the last days of rehearsal, when she’d got her performance up to a level that both Francis and Pauline deemed acceptable, she was beginning – superficially at least – to manage better. Grief for her father still lay over her spirit like a pall; indeed, his loss seemed to affect the whole house in one way or another. But the stain on her conscience troubled her more. At times, she wasn’t sure why that one small thing felt worse than the physical violation. Over and over again, she told herself that it shouldn’t … yet, no matter how many times she repeated it, the fact remained that it did. In one single syllable, she’d betrayed Ashley in a way she considered unforgiveable. And she didn’t know if she’d ever find the courage to admit it … or even if she should. Salving her own conscience at the price of his peace of mind was, at best, selfish and, at worst, cruel.
She was aware that he rarely sought her out these days and she understood why. In telling him not to touch her, she’d refused his comfort and he was finding that difficult. Sometimes she caught a look in his eyes that hinted that it was much worse than that. A look that suggested he was suffering beyond endurance – though it always vanished before she could be sure. He was unfailingly considerate and courteous and apparently possessed of an unending supply of patience. But she knew he’d retreated behind the invisible shield she remembered so well from their earliest days and that, unless she did something about it soon, he’d stay there where she couldn’t reach him.
She missed him so much it was like slow starvation and wondered if he knew it and whether, if he didn’t, she had any right to tell him. She missed the light in his extraordinary eyes when she smiled at him and the way laughter could gather there even though his mouth looked perfectly grave. She missed his teasing, his quick mind and his warmth at night. She missed the luxury of merely watching him shave.
There were times when she woke at night and paced her room. Twice she stopped to lean her cheek against the door that divided them, wanting nothing but to hear him breathe. The second time she almost set her hand to the latch. But guilt prevailed and she didn’t.
* * *
Ashley found as many reasons as he could to stay out of the house. He spent time with Ned Hyde, discussing the situation in England and the King’s chances of getting foreign aid. He also learned that William Brierley had been right about the marriage lines; that, on the date given, both Hyde’s and Secretary Nicholas’s records showed, independently of each other, that Charles couldn’t possibly have been in St Germain-en-Laye.
At other times, Ashley fenced, played tennis and occasionally rode outside the city with Charles. It was nearly eight weeks since Nicholas had arrived with Colonel Maxwell’s warning and there was still no mention of Honfleur, causing Ashley to wonder if Hyde was right and the whole plot had fallen through. This possibility coupled with the removal of the Marquis d’Auxerre suggested that a small amount of relaxation might be in permissible – with the result that he spent a couple of evenings in the Chien Rouge with Cyrano de Bergerac from which he returned less than sober but not quite drunk enough to step outside the mould he’d created for himself.
The constraints regarding Athenais were legion. Don’t say this … don’t do that … remember to keep your hands to yourself. Don’t let her see how hurt and helpless you feel. And don’t ever let her see you less than fully dressed. The litany went on
and on. Sometimes he wondered how much longer he could stand it. And then, gritting his teeth, he told himself that he’d stand it as long as was necessary.
Sometimes at night he heard her moving around her room as if, like him, she was sleeping badly. Once he had an overwhelming sense that she was standing just outside his door. He lay utterly still in the darkness and held his breath … waiting, hoping, praying he might hear the click of the latch. But he didn’t.
* * *
Ménage Deux opened to the same enthusiastic reception as its predecessor and Athenais received almost as great an ovation as Pauline. It was the first time Ashley had attended a performance since d’Auxerre’s assault and, but for some strong words from Pauline, he probably wouldn’t have attended this one either. He managed, however, to make the appropriately appreciative comments to both Athenais and Pauline and to congratulate Francis on a second masterpiece. Then he did what he’d been doing for the last month. He poured a large glass of wine and withdrew to the dressing-closet in order to be out of the way before Athenais came up to ready herself for bed. As happened quite frequently these days, he felt like smashing something. As ever, he controlled the impulse.
Not very much later and still with no trace of her usual exhilaration, Athenais also excused herself. Francis looked wryly at Pauline and said, ‘Not exactly the reaction we’d been hoping for – and no sign of anything mending, either. Are you disappointed?’
‘No. We were overly optimistic.’ She handed him a glass of wine. ‘Enough of that. It’s a good play, Francis. Better than good, actually. Unless I’m much mistaken, you should prepare yourself for an approach from Floridor at the Bourgogne.’
‘You think so?’
‘Yes. You have a future and Josias isn’t one to miss an opportunity.’
‘Josias?’
‘Josias de Soûlas. It’s Floridor’s real name. Surely you knew that?’
‘Yes. I just didn’t know that you were on first-name terms with him.’