Charlotte’s Story (33 page)

Despite a brisk draft coming from right in front of the ballroom’s generous fireplace, the ballroom was comfortable, and all the lights were working. I was relieved to see that the two brutal-looking metal eyes had been removed from the ceiling as I’d requested.

Michael laughed as he alternately stumbled and ran after the two large rubber balls I’d brought for him to play with. When he tired, he sprawled on my lap and I showed him the pictures of the animals I would paint for him on the walls: Peter Rabbit, Jemima
Puddleduck, Jeremy Fisher, naughty Tom Kitten. Though I’m not sure if he understood me as I explained to him what I was going to do, and how the ballroom would be a special place for him to play, he seemed happy, and finally drowsy. Content.

Because of the faint odor of paint in the room (are you wondering, as I did not at that moment, how the room had been transformed in so short a time? I had only engaged the painter three or four days earlier), I’d left the pocket doors open two feet or so. As Michael gently snored, I watched the sunlight fade on the theater doors across the hall and wondered how it must have changed since I’d last seen it. But I wasn’t in any hurry to know.

It was the last truly happy afternoon Michael and I had together for a long, long time.

Chapter 32

Olivia Avenged

In the days after J.C. left, Press spent much of his time away from the house, which suited me very well. I spent two peaceful nights in Olivia’s bed, but on the third night I awoke to a scent of roses so strong that it was like an assault.

Olivia was waiting for me.

Gathering the robe from the end of the bed, I rose anxiously and hurried into the morning room. Had it been she who had shown me the truth about Michael Searle’s suicide? (I had no belief in J.C.’s supposed brother and felt the fool for being duped into the séance.) Was I the only one alive who knew? I doubted that Press knew the whole truth about his parents. If he did, might it not make him more compassionate? No. That was wrong. His father—the man I believed to be his true father—had been a monster. There had been no kindness in him, and Press was fast becoming like him. It was, I guessed, a case of
blood will out
. But was it that Press was only now exhibiting madness that had been handed down to him at his
birth, or was it that he was, God forbid, possessed by the spirit of the creature who had raped Olivia?

The sheet was hung once again in the morning room, though I knew it hadn’t been earlier in the day.
Terrance
, I thought. Or, no. I certainly no longer needed rational explanations for what went on in Bliss House. I was far, far beyond that.

I waited. The Magic Lantern flared to life with its slight odor of hot metal and oil. With its light, the chilled room warmed. There was no more of the frost that had been there that first night, and I felt an odd sense of normality about it all. Except that Eva wasn’t there. I feared that she had gone, driven away by Press and my own inability to help her.

The details of what Olivia showed me that night are shamefully sordid. Though God knows I have already related enough to alarm even the most jaded of listeners. I can only say that—even though at times I had to look away myself—it was a scene of such great passion and tenderness that I don’t have the words to convey it.

Olivia was in her bed. She held out her arms to Michael Searle, who was now naked and finally unashamed; he lay down with her, kissing the bruises and hideous bite marks inflicted by the old man—his own hideous, desiccated father—on her pale, lovely skin. The moonlight streaming through the windows cast much of the room in stark relief, but the reflection from the well-stoked fire was gold and lively on their flesh. I will tell you that there was no true consummation between them, because consummation wasn’t possible and had never been. But there was something more. There was an obvious, deep affection between them. Even, it might be said, love.

You may ask how such a thing is possible between two people such as they. I had seen Michael Searle clearly the night before, and my vision had confirmed a suspicion that I hadn’t dared admit to myself. Michael Searle was a man, but, perhaps, also a woman. A hermaphrodite. His member was quite small, but his breasts were
also gently developed. As he embraced Olivia with a languor that was both sensual and feminine, I could see that his body was nearly hairless, like a young girl’s. There was no awkwardness, but only tenderness between them.

I felt no shock. Only pity. I saw the large corset lying over the chair, and I knew what pain Michael Searle must have endured every day of his life and why his chest was bruised and badly scarred. He had been forced to live completely as a man by the monster that was his own father—to hide his father’s shame in him. Seeing such tenderness between the two of them, I understood that there was no shame between Olivia and Michael Searle.

My heart filled with feeling for them. For Olivia.

When the door to the bedroom up on the screen flew open, Olivia screamed and held fiercely to Michael Searle. Terrance entered, with the old man leaning heavily upon him.

Michael Searle pulled away from the clinging Olivia and, with a fierceness he hadn’t shown the last time his father and Terrance had been in the room, flew at his father, Randolph, his hands reaching for the hideous wattled throat. But Terrance, who in the present I knew to be ponderously slow, was too fast for him and shoved Michael Searle hard so that he fell, his head hitting the massive blanket chest at the end of the bed. I—along with Olivia—waited for him to rise, but he did not. Because I had witnessed his later suicide, I knew that he wasn’t dead, but I think Olivia did not know.

The old man did not react beyond giving his son a rheumy glance, but fixed his gaze on Olivia. She was an object to him. A property. Though his own body was decrepit and dangerously fragile, everything about his presence spoke of confident ownership.

Terrance turned from Michael Searle and went to steady the old man, who was speaking to Olivia. His words, like all the words spoken on that white screen, were unintelligible, but I had the impression that he spoke slowly. Their effect on Olivia was immediate. She looked from the old man to Terrance.

What was she saying? I moved closer to the screen, feeling the increase in heat from the Magic Lantern, as though it were burning hotter.

After speaking, Olivia closed her eyes for a moment and then nodded.

As Terrance helped the old man up the bed stairs, a retainer helping a demon king onto his throne, I saw Olivia feel for the drawer in the bedside table. She took out a handkerchief, along with something else that flashed green and blue in the firelight.

When the old man was finally on his knees over her—and I will not describe how he was readying himself because it makes me ill even to think of it—Olivia grimaced and swung the jewel-handled peacock knife into the side of his neck: once, twice, three times in quick succession.

The screen went blank, and I was grateful. I had seen enough.

How alone Olivia must have felt for the rest of her life! For a short time she had been loved, but then had to raise her son—perhaps the result of that first rape—alone. Bliss House had been thick with fear and hopelessness, and she had turned that hopelessness into some kind of strength. I had witnessed her strength and had thought it hauteur or disdain. What she had shown me horrified me. But I was also humbled.

Chapter 33

Press Revealed

There was no more sleep that night. I huddled beneath a third blanket from the chest at the foot of Olivia’s bed, unable to get warm. In addition to turning on the bedside lamp, I also lighted a pair of candles, hoping for that much more heat. A book lay open beside me, but my mind was too filled with what I had seen.

“I saw your light on.” Press hadn’t bothered to knock.

Each of the preceding nights, I’d remembered to lock my door, and Press hadn’t—to my knowledge—tried the doorknob. My own complacency had betrayed me. Though I’d known I couldn’t put him off forever. In matters of sex, Press was rarely patient.

He tossed his robe onto a nearby chair and got into bed with me, wearing a comfortable smile.

I didn’t yet hate him then, but I couldn’t honestly say that I loved him anymore. How I wished there had been someone else to steal my affections. Someone gentle and kind and willing to take care of Michael and me.

When I tried to turn away, he pulled me close. He was naked, and I felt the heat of his skin and the prickling of his body hair through my gown.

“You know you can’t leave me, Charlotte.” He kissed my neck and rubbed his face against it, abrading it so that it stung. “You can’t have Michael unless you have me.”

“I never said I wanted to leave you.”

“But you moved out of our suite. Locked your door. You’ve been an ice princess ever since J.C. left. And she could’ve been very, very nice to you, my love.” He squeezed one of my nipples to punctuate his words, and I cried out softly. I couldn’t bear the thought of Shelley hearing us. What he was implying about J.C. and me was probably meant to shock me, but she had told me herself, hadn’t she? There was very little now that he could say that would shock me.

I was still cold, and I hated that he burned with warmth beside me. But it was as if he were a stranger. Worse than a stranger. My body refused to respond to him.

“You’re breaking my heart, my love. You’re not being a good wife, or a good mother. Everyone’s saying you look so tired. So unhappy. Tell me you’re not unhappy, my darling.”

“I’m happy.”

“You’re going to have to work a little harder to convince me. You were so mean to J.C. that she left here in tears. It takes a lot to make an old warhorse like J.C. cry. What did you do to her?”

He continued to touch me gently, with his lips and his hands. I didn’t resist when he edged my thighs apart, but neither did I make it particularly easy for him. I knew it was my duty to let him exercise his husband’s privileges, but I wasn’t so naïve as to think what he was doing was right. It’s so hard to describe the change in him. In a matter of a few months, he’d gone from being my generous but slightly arrogant husband to a manipulative stranger. Yet the only things that had changed in our lives were the deaths of Olivia and Eva.

“Didn’t you like J.C.? Is there someone you would like better?”

I turned my face further into the pillow, which made him laugh. The sound of it was too close. Disheartening. We were utterly alone. In the nursery, not so many days ago (though it felt like a lifetime), I had at least felt someone else there, watching us. God knew it wasn’t right, but I preferred the presence of some unseen entity to that of my husband.

“Oh, Charlotte, Charlotte. How precious you are. Promise you’ll always stay like this. So beautiful.”

I lay there, waiting. Enduring. Thinking that Olivia had endured much worse. It hurt, but only because I couldn’t make myself respond. The things that had once brought me so much pleasure were like ancient rituals that had to be endured. There was no shame in them. Only sadness.

When he finished, he used the pristine bedsheets—his mother’s sheets—to wipe himself clean. I tried to turn over so I didn’t have to look at him, but he grabbed my shoulder and jerked me back. It was the closest he’d ever come to touching me with violence.

“I can play this game as long as you like. Just know that you are here for me until I decide I don’t need you anymore.”

“I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this.”

“We’ve had a wonderful time, haven’t we? No one could ever say I haven’t treated you like a queen.”

“If you’re going to treat me like
this
, why in God’s name won’t you divorce me? Let me leave. It’s like you want to humiliate me. Are you going to continue to punish me for Eva?”

“You can leave anytime. I won’t stop you.”

“I don’t want anything from you. Just let me take Michael. Then you can have any woman you want. In your mother’s bed. Anywhere. I’m sure J.C. would be happy to come back and take my place.”

Press sighed. “I don’t think so. Michael stays.”

“You can’t keep us here. My father will take me in.”

“And break his Roman Catholic heart? He wouldn’t put up with a divorce, my dear. He’s such a traditionalist. Divorce isn’t the way we do things. You don’t have any grounds.”

While I suspected he badly overestimated my father’s desire for me to remain married to him, I knew he was right about there not being any grounds on which I could divorce him. There was nothing that I could prove. I had no bruises and no real evidence that he’d cheated. In movies and books, people hired private detectives all the time, but right now he was watching me too closely. I was cut off. There was no one to hire. All our friends were Press’s friends. And Rachel? Even then, I think I understood that I couldn’t count on Rachel. I’d heard of two women from our Burton Hall class who had divorced, and neither of them had come out of it well. They’d had to leave behind their friends, and, in one sad case, their children.

While I stared off, thinking, wishing he weren’t so close to me, I could feel him watching me. But his gaze felt unfamiliar. Where had my husband gone?

Finally he lay back heavily on the bed a foot or so away from me. He stroked my arm, and I felt goosebumps rise.

“Even if you did try to divorce me, I’m afraid you wouldn’t get very far. I have two men who will swear you’ve been throwing yourself at them for months, begging for sex. Even after my mother’s funeral. You’ve shown the most appalling taste. So unbecoming for a young mother.”

I was speechless.

“It’s not going to come to that, though. You wouldn’t put Michael or yourself through that kind of humiliation. Everyone knows you’re unstable. Hiding Michael away in my mother’s bedroom. Disappearing into the morning room. Wandering the house at night and running like a criminal from the hospital. You don’t want to push it. You know how people can be.”

No, I hadn’t really known how people could be. But I was learning. God help me, I was learning.

The same voice that had tried to persuade me to kill myself the night of the séance reminded me about the knife hiding in Olivia’s jewelry box. (How odd that it sounded so much like Press’s voice!) If I let him fall asleep beside me, I could reach it easily. But I refused to be a murderer. I couldn’t leave Michael and let him grow up knowing his mother had killed his father and died in the electric chair. Randolph Bliss was believed to be long dead and buried when Olivia killed him. He’d obviously faked his own funeral and hidden himself from the world. His wife was dead. (She’d been found in the woods, and there had been no investigation. Had he arranged her death, as well?) There had been no arrest for the murder of Randolph Bliss. No scandal. Only Terrance knew. And he would again be a kind of witness if I killed Press. Like Olivia, I would be blackmailed and have to live with Terrance, whatever his demands. There was no choice. I was no murderer.