11 Harrowhouse (19 page)

“What?”

“The North Gate Cottage. Massey let me decorate it for myself. I often go there just to be … alone.”

“Then I'm intruding.”

She told him he wasn't by saying, “It's about another mile from here. Are you game?”

He definitely was. He broke pace then and laughed. “I just stepped on something squishy.”

“A snail, no doubt.”

“Out of his shell.”

“Searching for food.”

“Or maybe pleasure.”

“They must come out to make love, mustn't they?”

“Otherwise it would be extremely crowded,” said Chesser.

“And not nearly so comfortable,” said Lady Bolding.

Encouraged by that exchange, his arm encircled her. And, reciprocating, hers went around him. They walked on like that, their sides touching. Chesser remembered how she had looked in the bikini at the pool. It stirred him some, but it also reminded him of Maren's remarks about Lady Bolding's lesbian penchant.

As though his mind had transmitted, she asked, “What has your Maren told you about me? Something, I'm sure.”

“Nothing,” he replied too quickly.

“Of course she has. She told you I don't fancy men.”

“Maren's imagination is—”

“Maren's delightful! You mustn't say a word of apology for her. You should have seen her riding today. What a daredevil!”

“That's for sure.”

“You must understand that women, especially beautiful ones such as Maren, have sensual antennae that help tell them almost immediately whether another woman such as myself is a friend, competitor, or potential lover.”

“I don't put much faith in intuition.”

“You should. Because everything I suspect Maren told you about me is true.”

That didn't make sense to Chesser. It argued against all he was now feeling and certainly all he was anticipating. Logic, not intuition, now seemed to limit his prospects with Lady Bolding. He was suddenly, intensely disappointed.

Lady Bolding told him, “I've had my share of intimate experiences, but only twice with men and once with a boy.” She paused, as though to allow Chesser to handle that, then continued in the same detached matter-of-fact manner. “The boy was first and, of course, was successful only in satisfying my curiosity. With the first man, it was trial. With the second, it was error.”

Perhaps for psychological support she increased the pressure of her arm around him. Chesser was actually aware of her hand matching the curve of his waist. He thought he should contribute some thoughts of his own about women, perhaps make some statement to exaggerate his liberal attitudes, let her know that despite his heterosexuality he wasn't a sexual bigot. He decided to say nothing.

“When it comes to physical pleasure,” she told him, “we're all pretty much reflexive creatures. Sooner or later we're irresistibly pulled to the particular part of the sexual spectrum that demands and offers the most intensity.”

That sounded, Chesser thought, like something she'd probably read someplace and needed to remember verbatim. Excuses in the form of explanations were vital.

She continued: “Once one has finally accepted a certain identification in the erotic minority, it's very difficult to deny it. Even when one feels the desire strongly.” She underlined that last phrase with her tone.

Chesser wondered what the hell she was talking about. “You mean …”

“Take a person such as myself. I've already accepted what I am. I know what I want. I enjoy a measure of self-confidence and personal well-being in that. I'm going along just fine. Then, suddenly, circumstances bring me to someone who causes contradiction in my sexual values. What should I do? Close off my feelings, tell myself it's not worth the agony of ambivalence?” She let the questions hang for a moment, then went on.

“Last night I gave it considerable thought. There I was in my bed, and, only steps away, there were you and Maren. My fantasies put me between the two of you. However, the more I thought of that, of sharing both you and Maren, the more I realized I was merely compromising, trying to camouflage my ulterior motive. You see …” She hesitated, out of diffidence or perhaps to add emphasis, and then said, “… actually, I only wanted to be with you.”

That sent Chesser off-balance. Suddenly, marvelous possibilities. He said, “I'm flattered.”

She didn't tell him not to be. “As long as I'm being so candid you might as well know I followed you out tonight. Purposely.”

Chesser's ego was expanding. “I had no idea. Actually …”

“I know, I know what you thought. All along I was intentionally misleading you, as well as myself.”

“You gave me no indication.”

“As I told you, I couldn't. I felt the attraction from the first, but you were a man and I wasn't supposed to be susceptible, not at all. I honestly tried to block the compulsion, the chemistry, whatever it is. However, it increased.”

They had been walking slowly all the while. He stopped them. He held her. She held. Against one another with a gentle full-length pressure.

Chesser was immediately aroused. She had to know it, perhaps acknowledged it when she drew her cheek across his and offered her mouth up. He kissed her very tenderly.

“Was your destination tonight also a lie?” he asked.

“No. We're almost there.”

The North Gate Cottage. It was two stories and, in keeping with the main house, authentic Georgian. In daylight one would be able to see that its exterior of old brick was almost entirely covered with ivy. But now in the dark that growth, having eliminated all angles, made the cottage appear hulking, heavy set, and ominous.

Lady Bolding went in, preceding Chesser. She snapped a light on and immediately closed the drapes, an act that seemed to go with the clandestine circumstances. He remembered having told Massey he'd never stolen anything and thought this was a sort of stealing. Taking the forbidden …

“Would you like a drink?” asked Lady Bolding.

“Would you?”

“No.”

She was across the room. The space between them created awkwardness. Their eyes met. She looked away. Before he could start toward her, she quickly excused herself and went upstairs.

He looked about the room. It was elegantly done in browns and creams, black, tortoise, leather, and valuable animal pelts. On the top of a desk he noticed a letter addressed to her in a strong, evidently feminine hand. He was tempted to read it. There also was some of her personal stationery, tastefully engraved, next to a simple sterling upright frame holding an enlarged snapshot of her, younger, flanked by two pretty dark-haired girls—leggy girls in short skirts. Their pose was arms around. Their expressions were identical, rather insolent. Chesser wondered. He heard her barefoot steps above.

For no particular reason he pulled open one of the desk's small upper drawers and was surprised to find a tiny nickel-plated revolver lying on some postage stamps. At first he thought the revolver was a toy replica, perhaps one of the novelty cigarette lighters, but when he took it out and felt its weight he knew it was real. He examined it, curious. As he replaced it in the drawer he saw a plain, wide, platinum wedding band. He closed the drawer carefully.

His eyes then came on another smaller framed photograph, propped up. This one of a slender young man, fair haired, fixed smile. Symmetrically featured, a bit too good-looking. Alexander. Chesser was sure.

He turned and was startled as a large tiger tabby came out from around a chair. It stopped, stretched, blinked, and spread its front toes, exposing its claws. The cat regarded Chesser with a disapproving stare, then sat and began licking itself.

Chesser heard Lady Bolding's movements above. He thought she might be coming down then, so he assumed what he considered an appropriately casual stance, turned partly away from the stairs. While waiting he noticed a clear, crystal humidor of cigars. Massey's. And an arrangement of fresh flowers—white daisies and cornflowers mixed with small pink roses in their prime. Saw, also, a glass paperweight with an iridescent blue dragonfly preserved forever at its center. Saw a portrait sketch of Lady Bolding, well done. He went closer to study the portrait. Lady in repose. Her breasts insinuated by the swift, intermittent pen strokes. Her perfect, langorous yet imperious face done in the same technique. Even in mere outline her fascinating blends and contrasts showed clearly.

Looking at her portrait, Chesser recalled with unease her saying that no man had ever pleased her. What made him so sure he would be the exception? How much of his past confidence with women had come from the knowledge of their ability to respond? Knowing they had previously experienced pleasure had always been a reassuring starting point. Usually, once desire was established, response was assumed. But not this time. This time he could assume nothing.

He heard her calling his name, the last syllable of it with a rising inflection; a request. Again she called. This time the last syllable was inflected down, softly but unmistakably demanding. He turned from the portrait and climbed the stairs.

The second floor was completely dark. Chesser put out his hands, felt walls left and right, and deduced he was in a narrow hallway. He edged his way along and collided with a table. She called again. He was headed the wrong way.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Here.”

“Something wrong with the lights?”

She didn't answer that, so he proceeded down the hall in the direction of her voice. His hands found the doorway to a room. “I can't see a thing,” he said, a bit embarrassed. He expected her to say something then from inside that room, to guide him to her. But again her voice was coming from behind him, calling his name, this time with some impatience.

He turned and crossed the hall, got the opposite wall with his touch, felt along it until he located another doorway. He had the sensation that he'd gone blind.

“Where are you?” he asked again.

“Right here,” she said.

At least he'd found the right room.

“Snap on a light,” he said, and felt without success for a switch on the wall near the door frame.

“I'm waiting for you,” she said.

That encouraged him to take some further steps. His legs came in contact with what had to be the side of a bed. He reached down and found the surface of a silk sheet, leaned over and moved his hand, patted until he came in touch with her skin, her bare hip.

She said nothing.

Chesser undressed. He wondered how large the bed was. When he lay down on it he decided it was king size. He rolled toward her and his forearm brushed her face. He apologized. He made out her position. She was on her back. He put his hand beneath her head so he could estimate where his mouth would find hers. He was slightly off the mark but immediately corrected that. He kissed her. He didn't bring her against him, although his chest and her left breast were lightly pressed. His free hand explored only the skin of her opposite shoulder where it made a soft transitional curve to her neck. She reciprocated in the kiss with an authority unfamiliar to him.

“Can't we have a light on?” he asked.

“No.”

“I like to see what I'm doing.”

“No.” Definitely.

“Are there windows in this room?”

“I drew the drapes.”

“Let's open them. There's a full moon.”

“I prefer not.”

She took the initiative, shifted onto her side and pulled him to her so they were front to front, pressed. Chesser was not entirely aroused, not nearly as much as before. He felt cheated. He was too accustomed to loving with his eyes as well.

They kissed again, and began their explorations. She gave his breasts important attention, applied her mouth, caused some well gauged apparently intentional pain. But her fingers handled him as though he were an unfamiliar object, either too fragile or dangerous.

Chesser traced his fingers over her, with long, slow-traveling touches, yet he felt the insufficiency of touch alone, wishing he could see all of her at once. He was forced to piece her together, using his memory for reference—her in the bikini at the swimming pool. He wished she would say something now to help verify her identity. He had to keep reminding himself it was she he was experiencing. He hated the blackness that added to the impression it was mere fantasy. The blackness was a handicap, and he wanted very much to be effective. He was tempted to get up, find the drapery pull, and get the help of moonlight, but he remembered how much she'd been opposed to that.

He resigned himself to it, resorted to technique. Reminded himself to be particularly tender, as he assumed her experience had been. Used his mouth delicately, his tongue, and wondered about the possible abrasive effect of his chin and cheeks.

He was encouraged when she sounded as though he were pleasing her. And when she tightened as though it were true. When he hesitated she lifted to him for him to continue. And when he thought he'd done enough of that she held him there, her fingers reining his hair so harshly his scalp burned.

And apparently, after a long while, that was how she achieved. From the throaty animal sounds that came from her and the increase in her tensions, he was sure she had.

Finally her legs relaxed, left and right apart. He kneeled up. She must have sensed his intention to enter her then, because she quickly drew her legs up together and rolled onto her side.

Chesser crawled up and lay beside her again. He touched himself to assess the degree of his want. Her hand covered his hand. He quickly took his away.

She kneeled up close and he thought she might be about to return the pleasure. Expecting that, he concentrated to visualize her exquisite face. But then she pivoted on one knee and swung her other leg over, so he was beneath and between her. She found herself with him, exactly, and regulated the entering, gradually. Until he was entirely included and her weight sealed them. She remained motionless for a long moment. He heard her breathe in and out, shallow, as she waited to adjust herself to him. She was extraordinarily firm around him, clutching moist. He put his hands to her breasts, stroked them to their tips.