Secrets and Sins, page 10
‘Oh, my dear,’ he said, his perfect teeth sparkling white in the gathering gloom. ‘I think it would. Now, before we go back to the house, I really must give you the guided tour of my favourite place. Don’t be afraid. It’s only a grotto built by my great grandfather, a very interesting place. I guarantee you’ll enjoy it, my dear Lydia.’
She looked around her and saw nothing except mist. It made sense to stay with somebody who knew this place. She followed him along the path they’d walked earlier.
The patch of lake she could see through gaps in the mist looked dark and flat as pewter. Close to the bank, bulrushes rustled in petrified clumps. The rocks forming the grotto towered above them and she jumped when something rattled from within the entrance that yawned as black as an open mouth.
‘Don’t be frightened, my dear. Just a water vole. I’m with you. Come and see.’
His fingers found hers, his palm hot and clammy as he dragged her closer to the gaping entrance.
‘I think we should go back,’ she said, digging in her heels.
‘Not yet. I want to show you this place. This is where he’s supposed to live; Pan’s grotto – that’s what this is called,’ Sylvester proclaimed. ‘Oh, sorry. Have I already said that? Well, no matter.’
His grip tightened. He dragged her into the stone building that looked as if it were carved from the solid rock behind it.
The interior was gloomy and an iron grille spanning the interior rang like a bell when Sylvester shook it.
‘Would you like to look inside? It’s terribly interesting. I did hear a rumour about buried treasure. Uncle Avis knows all about that. He likes your father, you know. Thinks he’s the best doctor he’s ever had. Did you know that? I wouldn’t wonder that he’ll be recommending him to all his friends. Now wouldn’t that be a feather in your father’s cap?’
Sylvester’s eyes were bright with intelligence – and something else. When he smiled the corners of his eyes tilted upwards like a fairy creature or a cat about to pounce on a bird.
Calm yourself.
She suddenly spotted the stout padlock holding the gate shut. She gave it a tug, the cold tackiness of the metal apparent even through her woollen gloves.
‘It’s locked. We can’t get in. We’ll have to go back.’
‘That’s right,’ returned Sylvester. ‘We need a key.’
Out came an iron ring with keys hanging on it. ‘I took it from behind Maynard’s door when he was showing my mother some flowers. Maynard’s the gardener here. Bet I can return them before the old fool notices they’re missing.’
Lydia gasped. ‘It could get you into trouble.’
Sylvester suddenly burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the cold stone. ‘I only took the keys from a servant. Servants don’t count when it comes to honesty.’
Lydia was appalled. ‘Of course they do.’
Sylvester shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. But never mind. Are you brave enough to enter Pan’s grotto?’ The key turned. The grille creaked open.
The smell was rancid and a dark dampness came out to meet them.
Lydia shivered. ‘It’s cold.’ She wrapped her arms around herself. The Kinski family came to mind. How cold would their house be if Mr Kinski wasn’t taken on in the docks?
‘A penny for your thoughts,’ said Sylvester, the heat of his body palpable and close to hers.
‘I was thinking of a family I met recently. A big family all crammed into a tiny house. It was cold and damp, just like this.’
‘Well, that’s the working classes for you. Live in a place the size of a rabbit hutch and breed like rabbits. Can’t control themselves.’
She turned on him angrily. ‘And what do you know about the working classes?’
He leaned closer, his chin resting on her shoulder. ‘I know which I would prefer to be, and that’s rich and privileged. Which would you prefer to be?’
She moved forwards into the grotto so that his chin fell off her shoulder.
‘It smells in here. And it’s cold.’ She shivered as she took in the gloomy details.
Moss hung like green hair from narrow crevices between rocks coated with watery slime.
‘Can you see him?’ Sylvester’s voice rang like a bell, echoing off the rocky interior. ‘Can you see the Great God Pan?’
‘Don’t be silly, Sylvester. I think it’s time to leave.’
She spun round on her heels attempting to brush past him.
‘I don’t.’
He was a barrier between her and the arched entrance.
‘I do,’ she said with a determined thrust of her chin. ‘I want to go. My father will be missing me.’
‘I missed you too. That’s why I came back.’
She could barely see his features; his face was in darkness, his eyes no more than deep pits, his head towering over her.
‘Humour me. Come into the grotto with me. I promise you’ll find it interesting.’
He took hold of her hand, leading her back into the darkness. Her heart was racing, and the further in she went, the gloomier, the colder it became.
She stopped abruptly just inside.
‘This is it. No further. Now what is it that’s so interesting?’ she asked, her heart pounding against her ribs.
‘You are!’
He grasped her face and kissed her fiercely, his fingers digging into her cheeks.
‘No!’
She pushed at his chest with both hands, but still he held on to her face.
‘You don’t mean that,’ he said, his voice muffled, his breath upon her face. ‘Women never mean that.’
His mouth smothered hers. One arm now hugged her close. Spreading his free hand over her breast, he squeezed – hard.
She beat at him with her fists, but Sylvester Travis Dartmouth had bulk on his side. Hitting him with her fists did no good at all and his hand was reaching for the hem of her skirt.
‘You know you want this,’ he hissed against her ear. He was preparing himself, spreading his legs and attempting to fumble for the buttons of his trousers with one hand whilst trying to scoop up the hem of her dress with another, using his weight to pin her against the cold, wet rock.
Lydia knew she had just one chance to hit him hard – exactly where it would hurt the most.
First, catch him unawares.
It must have seemed to him as though she was giving in when she stilled and smiled up into his face.
The smile turned into a grimace. ‘This is for you, Sylvester.’
In one swift movement, she raised her knee, bringing it up swiftly and solidly between his legs.
He doubled up.
‘Bitch!’ he shouted, both hands covering his crotch as he staggered backwards through the iron grille.
‘Hah!’ Lydia’s eyes glowed with triumph. ‘Women are not chattels, Sylvester. They’re not creatures to do with as you please.’
‘You led me on!’
‘I did not, Sylvester Travis Dartmouth. You tried to force me! You’re a cad!’
Even in the gathering darkness, she knew he was looking at her in fury, probably wanting to beat her if he could. She’d heard stories of what rich men could get away with. Some of those women who had been attacked found their way to her father’s surgery or the hospital, along with the money for their treatment and some extra to pay for their silence.
The only thing stopping him doing similar to her was the fact that her father was an educated man with friends and patients in high places, notably Sir Avis Ravening, Sylvester’s uncle.
A dark, brooding, bent-over figure, Sylvester suddenly grabbed the grille and slammed it shut.
‘No!’ Lydia wrapped her hands around two of the bars of the grille and shook it.
‘I’ve locked it,’ crowed Sylvester, holding the bunch of keys in front of her face but out of reach of her outstretched arm.
‘Sylvester, this is stupid. Let me out.’
‘You’re too hot blooded. You need to cool down.’
Lydia shook her head. ‘I won’t say anything. I promise. Nobody will be the wiser and my father won’t press charges.’
Sylvester laughed. ‘What charges? I am a gentleman. All I have to say is that you led me on.’
Lydia closed her eyes and counted to ten. She had to think. If he was so heartless as to leave her here all night, she could die of pneumonia. Like the street people found frozen to death in the doorways of abandoned buildings or children found up on warehouse roofs or ruined cellars, huddling together, only in her case, there was no other body with whom to share mutual warmth.
She also knew from some of the victims of rape brought into the hospital that convictions for rape were rare. ‘She led me on’ was considered a fitting defence, even if the victim was little more than a child.
Resting her forehead against the iron grille, Lydia took a deep breath.
‘It’s going to be cold tonight and this place is running with water. I could be dead by the morning. There would be nobody to blame except you. Have you considered that?’
She tried desperately to gauge his response but couldn’t.
His face, his whole figure, was now melting into darkness.
Finally overcoming the pain she’d inflicted on his groin, he straightened and re-entered the grotto. He stood close to the bars. She could smell his breath, his sweat and the pungent cologne he wore.
‘I’m only leaving you long enough to cool down and consider what we might be to each other.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t need to understand. You just need to submit. I always get what I want in the end, dear Lydia. Always.’
Fear was like an iron hand gripping her heart. Give in or what?
She rattled the bars of the grille with both hands, screaming and shouting for him to let her out.
‘Not until you kiss me.’
‘I can’t kiss you. I’m in here and you’re out there.’ Shaking his head, he wagged a finger in front of her face. ‘Naughty, naughty. You think that I need to let you out so I can kiss you, and then you can run away. Now this is what I want you to do. Lean up against the bars and pout. Then I shall kiss you. Now isn’t that easy?’
‘Then you’ll let me out?’
‘That depends on how enthusiastically you kiss me.’
She did as he said, resting her face against the bars. He did the same, their lips just about touching in a surprisingly gentle kiss.
It might have been bearable if his hands hadn’t also come through the grille to grope at her breasts.
Lydia sprang backwards. ‘You disgusting creature!’
He laughed and took more steps backwards until he was yet again in the entrance arch, the doorway between the interior and the exterior of the grotto.
‘I see you need a little more time to consider. Unless you’d like to swear an oath to the Great God Pan?’
Lydia frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘It’s quite simple. Just say that you believe in Pan.’
‘No. I will not. That would be blasphemous.’
‘No, it would not. This is his place, his grotto.’
‘Rubbish,’ shouted Lydia. ‘He was a Greek god. He can’t be here! He’s dead. He’s stone dead!’
‘I won’t let you out until you say he’s real.’
‘He is not real! And you, Sylvester, are quite mad!’
Sylvester looked taken aback. It wasn’t often that somebody denied him something or refused to do as he wished.
‘Then you can bloody well stay there!’
He stalked off then stopped, turned round and flung the keys on to the floor.
Horrified, Lydia shouted after him. ‘Sylvester. Come back here this instant!’
Sylvester had made up his mind; shoulders hunched, arms crossed, he set off towards the path that ringed the lake, the bulrushes rustling as he passed.
He stopped at the top of the incline where he’d found Lydia lost by the box hedge. Earlier he’d seen Robert make an impression on Lydia Miller. It was always Robert who made an impression, always Robert who had people – both adults and children – taken in by his charm. Take the cook’s daughter for instance; it was obvious the girl doted on him. Well, it was time somebody looked up to him; was grateful to him. He’d like Lydia Miller to dote on him. He wanted her to admire him, to want him as a woman always wanted a man. He certainly wanted her.
His plan was to let her stew awhile then rescue her. The fact that he’d imprisoned her there in the first place was unimportant. She’d be grateful when he got back to her. She would throw herself into his arms and he would undoubtedly get what he wanted. He always did. He was Sylvester Travis Dartmouth; brave, wealthy and used to getting his own way.
11
The darkness intensified. Lydia could see little, but she could hear things scurrying into the undergrowth, the splash of rats entering the lake outside. Daytime noises – rustling bulrushes, flapping birds’ wings and trout leaping for flies – were different when darkened by night. Even the distant lowing of cattle driven to the milking shed seemed more monstrous when the light began to fade.
From somewhere behind her, deep in the cave, she heard the fluttering of leathery wings.
She’d memorised the spot where Sylvester had thrown the keys, about three feet in front of where she had stood when he’d kissed her. Even in the darkness, she was sure that if she had a stick, she could use it to reach out and draw it back to where she was.
For that, she needed some kind of tool, something long enough and strong enough to reach out and pull the keys towards her.
There was nothing. Everything she touched was wispy and fragile, bits of dried bulrush stalks blown in by the wind.
It was getting colder. Stamping her feet kept her circulation going. Damn that man! Who did he think he was, leaving her like this?
Getting angry helped less than stamping her feet. The truth was that she would freeze if she stayed here much longer. She pressed herself against the bars. Surely someone would come! Someone would miss her, hopefully before Sylvester came back. Fear as much as cold lurked in the darkness. It crossed her mind that the Great God Pan might really exist, lurking somewhere in the grotto behind her. On the other hand, was he outside, watching for someone to get trapped in his grotto like a fly wandering into a web? She’d read about ancient sacrifices. Did they sacrifice to Pan in ancient times?
‘Get a grip, Lydia,’ she said to herself. ‘Never mind Pan. It’s Sylvester you’ve got to worry about.’
Wishing her hands were around his neck rather than the bars of the iron grille, she gave them a good rattle, hoping that someone might be out there, somebody might hear.
‘Help! Help me! Let me out!’
Somewhere a rabbit screamed, an owl hooted and a vixen yelped to her mate.
Lydia leaned her forehead against the iron grille, her fingers clenched around the cold metal.
‘I won’t cry. I won’t cry,’ she told herself. Despite her intentions her bottom lip trembled.
Then she heard a sound, faint at first, footsteps disturbing the gravel on the path that circled the lake.
Sylvester! It had to be Sylvester come back to see if she would give in to him. It crossed her mind that for the sake of release from her imprisonment, perhaps she should do that.
‘Absolutely not,’ she murmured resolutely, then more loudly, so that he could hear and know he had not defeated her. ‘Absolutely not!’
‘Hello! Is someone there?’
Not Sylvester’s voice. That beautiful baritone; once heard, never forgotten. With some surprise, she realised she had already stored the timbre of Robert’s voice in her head.
She shouted again. ‘Help me. I can’t get out.’
The flickering of a storm lantern fluttered like a butterfly around the grotto entrance. And there was Robert’s form, taller and more lithe than Sylvester’s.
The light was puny, but it was enough to see that it was Robert.
‘Don’t ask why and how. When I couldn’t find you, I beat it out of him.’
‘Sylvester locked me in.’
Even in the meagre light, she saw Robert’s jaw clench. ‘He’s nursing a black eye for Christmas.’
Lydia shoved her hand through the bars of the grille, pointing out the whereabouts of the keys. ‘The keys are on the floor, just there, right in front of me.’
His sharp eyes found the keys; he swooped on to them and unlocked the grille.
Lydia almost fell into his arms. ‘Thank goodness you came.’
‘You look frozen. Here, take my cloak.’
The cloak he placed around her shoulders still held the warmth of his body. She snuggled herself into it.
‘I take it you got lost on your way back to the house.’
‘I did get lost. The mist thickened suddenly and I lost my bearings. I decided the best course to follow was to retrace my steps and start again. That’s when Sylvester found me and offered to show me something special. I didn’t really have much choice.’
‘Oh. Perhaps I misunderstood. Sylvester said you came willingly, kissed him almost breathless and bared your breasts to him.’
Lydia was aghast. ‘That’s disgusting.’
‘You wouldn’t be the first.’
‘Let us get something straight, Mr Ravening. My father and I were invited here by Sir Avis, not by your cousin. And I think Agnes had a hand in it. If I’d known this sort of thing was likely to happen, I would not have come.’ She glared angrily at him. ‘Unless this whole thing was contrived by both of you.’ The light of the lantern threw patterns on to his face. Robert looked stunned.
‘Please believe me. I had no idea.’
He sounded and looked sincere, almost as though she’d offended him in fact. It came as something of a relief. She didn’t want him to be guilty of anything. If that was part of falling in love, then so be it.
They began walking back to the house, their breath steaming from their mouths, fading into the mist. She shook so much her teeth chattered, not from cold but because of what had just happened.
The aftermath of her frightening experience did not go unnoticed. Robert insisted she took his arm.
‘We don’t want you getting lost again,’ he said genially when he saw her hesitate.
