Coronach, page 81
I waited for noon; I waited to hear the post horn. Achievement had made me reckless. I could not eat, I could not remain in the chair, I would not expose myself to the vulnerability of the bed. The saddlebag lay on the floor where he had left it. I opened it.
It contained powder and shot for the pistols he carried: there were no other weapons. The brandy, what remained of my money and other, more generous offerings, a bracelet with a broken clasp, a sapphire earring, a gold watch and fob, a chased silver card case bearing initials and a regimental crest. Nothing that suggested an identity to me, only a criminal occupation.
Pawned, one of these would return me to London... or see me accused of robbery. I replaced them and left the bag where it was, and was seated before I heard his step on the stairs.
His hand came into my field of vision and placed first my ring and then the letter on the table. Some bodily scent accompanied the movement, which had not been present before, unbearably poignant and reminiscent: the fragrance of bay rum.
He was standing on the other side of the table, his hands clasped beneath his coatskirts. He was gazing down into the yard.
Eventually he said, “What happens now?” I said nothing. “The door is open. If you wish to run screaming of my iniquities into the taproom, you are at liberty to do so.” His voice was level, even pleasant. “However, it has always been a Hawkhurst habit to mind one’s own business. People find it healthier. Do you take my meaning?”
He turned fully toward me. He had shaved, and the unkempt coppery hair had been combed and tied with a black riband. “Why did you write to Catherine Mordaunt?”
“I should have thought the reason was obvious.”
Silence. Somewhere, in a normal world, the morning was progressing toward noon, and life held peace, order, small frustrations, smaller happinesses.
“Lady Anne Villiers is an habituée of that house. Sometimes she stops the night, with her lesbian lover, while daddy dandles his whore.” Whatever he wanted to see in my face, I refused to reveal it to him. “But then, you ain’t Lady Anne Villiers, are you.”
“My letter was in your possession. You know damned well who I am.”
Again that mocking, heartbreaking scent. He leaned closer and turned the letter over. The seal was unbroken.
He sat in the chair opposite me, leaning back, resting his elbows on the arms. On the smallest finger of his right hand he wore a heavy, dull gold signet ring. He looked comfortable and at ease, stretching his legs and then crossing them.
“Now. As you are not old Cripplegait’s daughter, perhaps you would care to enlighten me.” I did not answer. “You use silence like a weapon. I wonder if you can use it like a fan.”
Then he said, “Is that your breakfast over there? Did you eat any of it?” I indicated nothing, neither yes nor no. “I think you should eat something.”
He left the chair and carried the tray to the table, moving the letter and my ring to one side. By his movements and the sounds I knew he was lifting the napkin.
“Oh, very dainty. I think you should eat some of this.”
Ordinary, domestic sounds, cutlery, a spoon against china. He had buttered a square of cold toast and sliced it into mouthfuls. When he saw that my eyes were open he pushed the plate uninsistently toward me.
“This conserve is damson, a great favourite of mine. Damned difficult to find, you know. Their season is very brief.” I was weeping. “Especially in a hot summer.” Silence: I heard him replace the spoon. “For God’s sake eat, or will you reproach me with starvation?”
I tried to say that I could not eat because I was not clean, but the uncleanliness was not of my hands, and the sickness and sexual dread that possessed me were unspeakable.
The water she had left me had cooled, like everything on the tray. I had touched nothing, because to touch implied acceptance, acquiescence, complicity.
I said nothing.
He brought a linen towel soaked in the water, and impossibly, terribly, held my face in one hand and washed me gently with the other, as one would wash a child’s face. I wept soundlessly: he wiped the tears from my eyelids. The palm of his hand beneath my chin was cool and roughened, his face so close to mine that a scar was visible, running into the left eyebrow; his lashes were dark, the coppery hair whitening at the temples. The lashes lifted, the piercing eyes stared into mine, then dropped, and he began with the same implacable gentleness to wash my hands. His touch was unbearable, and I resisted him. As if the resistance were expected, he paid it no attention, and dried my hands. My heart broke, and my spirit: my body was trembling as though in convulsion.
“Who are you? Who are you?”
“Only a King’s officer, fallen on hard times.”
He was close, too close. He sensed it and straightened, leaving the damp towel on the table.
“Sleep if you can. I shall return at three.”
The floorboards creaked until he reached the door. He seemed to pause there, as if waiting for something.
I said into the silence, “My name is Margaret Scott. And you?”
He said, “You may call me St. James,” and left. I heard the key turn, with very little sound.
Impossibly, I slept.
He woke me. The light had changed, the tray and the jug had been taken, and a cloak that smelled indefinably of the sea had been laid over me.
“My God, will you drive me to death?”
“I regret it, but time is short. Make haste, if you please.”
But he did not harry me on the road, and a clear twilight had fallen before we entered Rye. In the afterlight a thrush sang, and another I had never heard.
He said, “Nightingales. They always sing in the churchyard at this time of the evening.”
“Do you know this place?”
“I lived here.”
The street was steep, cobbled, narrow, the houses half-timbered, the night, after the day’s elusive warmth, damp, as though the sea were close. Although lights were burning ahead, it was almost fully dark.
“If you are very fortunate,” the little, characteristic pause, “some one will kill me within the next few minutes, and all this will be nothing more to you than the watch that ends the night.” Another pause, almost as though he smiled. “Assuming the identity of Lady Anne Villiers would serve you well in that event.”
“Is that what you want?”
“You might find yourself popular. I am not, here, at the moment.” I sensed the pressure of his knee, and the bay’s eager response. “Come, my dear. Let us go and test the warmth of the reception.”
The inn was medieval, well-lighted, noisy; the stableyard at the rear was quieter, although lanterns were burning. He whistled a curious little tune as he dismounted, and what seemed to be a cellar door opened, revealing utter darkness. I knew that he had drawn one of the pistols from within his coat.
“Is there lamb tonight?”
And the answer, so peculiar that it must have been in code.
“Nay. Chance’ll give us bread.”
“Come,” he said to me. “Quickly.”
I stepped in beside him, and smelled sweat, neither his nor mine, the rank sweat of fear.
“Sweet Jesus... they said you was dead.”
“Everything they said of me was a lie.” I heard the soft exhalation. “Give us some light, there’s a good lad.”
A wick floating in an oyster shell revealed us, and the boy. He was fair-haired, fair-skinned; his eyes might have been dark by nature or dilated by his absolute fear. He kept wringing his hands: I now know the meaning of the expression. The man, St. James, did not notice or appear to notice this agitation.
“Christ, I’m perishing for a drink. And you, madam?”
“No... thank you.”
“A dish of tea for my lady, and a glass of something for me.” The boy hesitated, and again the vivid charm manifested itself. “Put it on my account, Lemuel. I’ll settle with you sometime.”
He did not speak while we were alone, and in that faint light his face was hidden from me. The boy returned, not with tea but with a steaming tankard of what smelled like negus.
“This was a-doing. I stole it.”
St. James gave it to me, and I cupped my hands around it, grateful for its heat.
“Never mind. I thank you for it.”
The boy said, “Tis a sin to steal.”
I thought he sounded very tired.
“Yes, by God, I know.”
I drank, knowing that I should share it with him, incapable of such intimacy.
“Has any one been to my house, Lemuel?”
“Rummagers was there on Wednesday. I seen ʼem.”
“Is any one there now?”
Strangely, both the boy and I knew what he intended.
“Oh, Cap’n, you dursn’t go there now—”
He said, “Yes, I think I will,” and the boy’s response was instant and passionate.
“Nay, I’ll go— you allus let me afore.” The smile was swift and beautiful. “I’ll fly!”
He must have gone up through the taproom, where I assumed he was a potboy. Silence came, and the cold confinement of the cellar was smothering.
“How long....”
“He is the fastest runner I have ever known. He used to carry messages for me, before he saw the light.”
“Is he a Methodist?”
“Yes. He was touched by the hand of God when Wesley preached here three years ago. His mother took him to the meeting— I went along too, for a joke. I enjoyed it immensely.”
“You were not converted.”
“No. But the music was very stirring.”
Time, and the silence, went on.
“Do you trust him?”
“His father was in my business, like all his family. He was always true to me. His mother was my housekeeper. Now she’s dead too, poor bitch.”
I left the tankard near the glim in the oyster shell; after a moment or two he reached for it. The boy slipped back into the cellar very soon afterward, giving only a nod.
He said, “Well, madam, let us take the air,” but he did not immediately move. “Lemuel—” and I sensed the boy’s painful adoration. “I am going away, and I shall not come back. What I leave in the house is yours, so take what you want while you can. And I will give you Chess.” There was a small, wounded interruption: he cut across it sharply. “Now listen to me, boy. Look for him on the Fairlight road, after dawn. And remember me.”
His hand came down on the glim and crushed it out, and we left in darkness and in silence. I did not see the boy’s face again.
The street climbed, and the cobbles were punishing. The moon had not yet risen.
“Leave the horses.”
The nightingales in the churchyard were silent: the night was as cold as death.
“Come with me.”
A low wall, the church on our right, overhanging, half-timbered houses, faint lights behind leaded panes. As we had climbed, so now we descended. Toward the end of the street he released my arm.
“This is Watchbell Street. I used to walk down there, looking out toward the harbour in the evenings.” The bruising pressure of his hand returned. “This is my house.”
No lights. A small courtyard, a ghostly cluster of narcissi whose perfume tormented me.
After the night’s clean darkness the interior was dead and cold. I heard him moving some piece of furniture against the door as if to ensure against interruption.
“Come with me.”
“Let me stay here. Please. Please. I promise you.”
“I would rather not.”
I felt stairs: in the darkness of sense and memory they became a familiar hell. I resisted him and felt the response to my resistance, the application of strength: I refused the compulsion of his hands and then I fought them, and for the first time cried out. He pulled me down, half lying, half sitting on the stairs, the dry hard palm over my mouth, his breath against my face. I felt the heavy beating of his heart, and then the hand on my hair.
“Enough. Enough... don’t force me to hurt you. Enough. Yes? Enough.” The hand over my mouth withdrew; the other, on my hair, remained. “Now show me that tiger’s heart again.”
I allowed myself to be lifted, handled, compelled to walk and to climb; the darkness at the top of the stairs had acquired definition, the first faint greyness of moonlight. He did not speak, save once to swear to himself, as though he could not find what he wanted and dared not risk lighting the candle by which he might have found it. Then there was silence: I thought he had assembled what he had come for, perhaps clothing or personal effects. I heard the closing of what might have been an armoire, a metallic sound I could not identify, and then the hiss of drawn steel.
He came to the bed, on the edge of which I sat, the naked blade in his hand.
“Come, madam. My vanity is satisfied.”
I said, “I will go no further with you.”
He came no closer.
“I do not accept your refusal, and I have no time for this.”
“I have money. Take it. Do what you want and leave me.”
“Madam, my time is very short. Believe me, I will kill you where you sit.”
“I beg of you... St. James. I beg of you.”
He said, so softly that I could not recognize the emotion in his voice, “For Christ’s sake, stand up and come to me.”
Fate touched me, the hand of God. The irrevocable moment passed. I rose and went to him.
In my dreams sometimes, I am still at Fairlight, where I witnessed the murder of a riding officer. I could not have prevented it, could not have warned him, could not have comforted him. In the seconds before the final thrust, he called St. James by his Christian name.
I could not have said how long we had been there, how much time had passed, how much passed afterwards, how long the lantern burned on the clifftop before it was answered by a flash from the sea.
Whatever the signal meant to him, he was preparing for departure. I saw the hand with its bloodied nails extending itself to me.
“Come down to the beach.”
The moon was setting, there was no sign of dawn. The air was turbulent with salt and surf, and bitter cold: the sea was angry, limitless, invisible: the light vanished as if imagined. The hand entered the lamplight and rested on my shoulder; the spilled blood on his clothing revolted and obsessed me.
“Come, my brave girl.”
My mind resisted: my coward’s body craved life, and obeyed him.
He left the lantern burning, and I saw it from the sea. Impossible to remember the descent, only the sensation of falling, the pain in my hands, the bite of salt in the wounds, the shingle underfoot, the hissing tide around my ankles; the boat, the roughness of the sea. No one spoke, and there was nothing of him but the pressure of his arm and thigh and the gunwale against my back in the darkness.
I could not climb from a boat in that swell, but I did climb: had I fallen I would have drowned within seconds. He said only, “When I tell you,” and I obeyed him, as in all other things. If those who waited on deck were surprised by my sex they did not comment in any recognizable language: he spoke to them in a fluent patois.
I remained close to the place where I had boarded, fighting the sickness and the motion, the noise in the darkness, a hard rain driving into my face, except the rain was the white burst of spray. Some one pulled me to my feet, into shelter. Others were there. A voice said in comprehensible French, “Shall we put the little one over the side?” and there was general laughter.
He said in French, without a trace of accent or the former patois, “Madame dislikes the sea, my friend. A man is never fortunate in his mistress.”
He was closer than the others, and perhaps the only one who understood me although they must have heard my voice.
“Are you French, you bastard?” and felt his hands on my shoulders. The sea and the living thing that rode it threw my body against his.
“No, madam, but I learned it in a hard school. I was a prisoner of war for nine months. And these are very dangerous men, who have interrupted their dangerous affairs at my request. Show a little gratitude, if not for your own sake, then for mine.”
The night drained away, and a flat sunless light came over that violent, shallow sea. I know now that she was a schooner out of Brest, that he paid for his passage and the unexpected extra, myself, with pieces of jewellery; that the passage, even for an experienced sailor, had been considered rough, and that the wind was contrary, and we stood off the coast of France for hours before it veered and we clawed into harbour. We had been at sea four days. I was ill and exhausted and the last vestige of dignity had been stripped from me.
Even then he did not release me.
I remember only the sleet, obscuring like a curtain, hissing into the dreaded dark water: the certainty that my hands would not support my weight, would not prevent me from falling. Sleet in my hair: an uncontrollable trembling.
My mind will give me no memory of how I reached the barque’s great cabin; it gives me only what came afterward. It was not warm, but spacious: dark leather, a touch of gold on white paint, a smell of cleanliness. I remember no one else, only St. James, removing the sword belt and laying the sword in its scabbard across the bench seat beneath the salt-smeared windows, leaving the pistols on the table; the sleet passing away; the reflection of the water thrown across the deckhead, illuminating the aquiline face. He was lying back in one of the deep leather chairs: like myself, he was filthy. I thought he slept, but when the youth arrived he opened his eyes, although he made no attempt to rise.
Their conversation did not concern me, although I was conscious of their attention. Then the boy withdrew, having called him Captain, like the other boy in another country, another life.
