Fingersmith (20 page)

She began to dream again. She began to wake, bewildered, in the night. Once or twice she rose from her bed: I opened my eyes and found her moving queerly about the room. 'Are you there?' she said, when she heard me stirring; and she came back to my side and lay and shook. Sometimes she would reach for me. When her hands came against me, though, she'd draw them away. Sometimes she would weep. Or, she would ask queer questions. 'Am I real? Do you see me? Am I real?'

'Go back to sleep,' I said, one night. It was a night close to the end.

'I'm afraid to,' she said. 'Oh, Sue, I'm afraid…'

Her voice, this time, was not at all thick, but soft and clear, and so unhappy it woke me properly and I looked for her face. I could not see it. The little rush-light that she always kept lit must have fallen against its shade, or burned itself out. The curtains were down, as they always were. I think it was three or four o'clock. The bed was dark, like a box. Her breath came out of the darkness. It struck my mouth.

'What is it?'I said.

She said, 'I dreamed— I dreamed I was married…'

I turned my head. Then her breath came against my ear. Too loud, it seemed, in the silence. I moved my head again. I said,

'Well, you shall be married, soon, for real.'

'Shall I?'

'You know you shall. Now, go back to sleep.'

But, she would not. I felt her lying, still but very stiff. I felt the beating of her heart. At last she said again, in a whisper: 'Sue—'

'What
is
it, miss?'

She wet her mouth. 'Do you think me good?' she said.

She said it, as a child might. The words unnerved me rather. I turned again, and peered into the darkness, to try and make out her face.

'Good, miss?' I said, as I squinted.

'You do,' she said unhappily.

'Of course!'

'I wish you wouldn't. I wish I wasn't. I wish— I wish I was wise.'

'I wish you were sleeping,' I thought. But I did not say it. What I said was, 'Wise? Aren't you wise? A girl like you, that has read all those books of your uncle's?'

She did not answer. She only lay, stiff as before. But her heart beat harder—I felt it lurch. I felt her draw in her breath. She held it. Then she spoke.

'Sue,' she said, 'I wish you would tell me—'

Tell me the truth
, I thought she was about to say; and my own heart beat like hers, I began to sweat. I thought, 'She knows. She has guessed!'—I almost thought,
Thank God
!

But it wasn't that. It wasn't that, at all. She drew in her breath again, and again I felt her, nerving herself to ask some awful thing. I should have known what it was; for she had been nerving herself to ask it, I think, for a month. At last, the words burst from her.

'I wish you would tell me,' she said, 'what it is a wife must do, on her wedding-night!'

I heard her, and blushed. Perhaps she did, too. It was too dark to see.

I said, 'Don't you know?'

'I know there is—something.'

'But you don't know what?'

'How should I?'

'But truly, miss: you mean, you don't know?'

'How
should
I?' she cried, rising up from her pillow. 'Don't you see, don't you see? I am too ignorant even to know what it is I am ignorant of!' She shook. Then I felt her make herself steady. 'I think,' she said, in a flat, unnatural voice, 'I think he will kiss me. Will he do that?'

Again, I felt her breath on my face. I felt the word, kiss. Again, I blushed.

'Will he?' she said.

'Yes, miss.'

I felt her nod. 'On my cheek?' she said. 'My mouth?'

'On your mouth, I should say.'

'On my mouth. Of course…' She lifted her hands to her face: I saw at last, through the darkness, the whiteness of her gloves, heard the brushing of her fingers across her lips. The sound seemed greater than it ought to have done. The bed seemed closer and blacker than ever. I wished the rush-light had not burned out. I wished—I think it was the only time I ever did—that the clock would chime. There was only the silence, with her breath in it. Only the darkness, and her pale hands. The world might have shrunk, or fallen away.

'What else,' she asked, 'will he want me to do?'

I thought, 'Say it quick. Quick will be best. Quick and plain.' But it was hard to be plain, with her.

'He will want,' I said, after a moment, 'to embrace you.'

Her hand grew still. I think she blinked. I think I heard it. She said,

'You mean, to stand with me in his arms?'

She said it, and I pictured her, all at once, in Gentleman's grip. I saw them standing—as you do see men and girls, sometimes, at night, in the Borough, in doorways or up against walls. You turn your eyes. I tried to turn my eyes, now—but, of course, could not, for there was nothing to turn them to, there was only the darkness. My mind flung figures on it, bright as lantern slides.

I grew aware of her, waiting. I said, in a fretful way,

'He won't want to stand. It's rough, when you stand. You only stand when you haven't a place to lie in or must be quick. A gentleman would embrace his wife on a couch, or a bed. A bed would be best.'

'A bed,' she said, 'like this?'

'Perhaps like this.—Though the feathers, I think, would be devils to shake back into shape, when you've finished!'

I laughed; but the laugh came out too loud. Maud flinched. Then she seemed to frown.

'Finished…' she murmured, as if puzzling over the word. Then, 'Finished what?' she said. 'The embrace?'

'Finished it,' I said.

'But do you mean, the embrace?'

'Finished it.' I turned, then turned again. 'How dark it is! Where is the light?—Finished it. Can I be plainer?'

'I think you could be, Sue. You talk instead of beds, of feathers. What are they to me? You talk of it. What's it?'

'It is what follows,' I said, 'from kissing, from embracing on a bed. It is the actual thing. The kissing only starts you off. Then it comes over you, like— like wanting to dance, to a time, to music. Have you never—?'

'Never what?'

'Never mind,' I said. I still moved, restlessly. 'You must not mind. It will be easy. Like dancing is.'

'But dancing is not easy,' she said, pressing on. 'One must be taught to dance. You taught me.'

'This is different.'

'Why is it?'

'There are lots of ways to dance. You can only do this, one way. The way will come to you, when once you have begun.'

I felt her shake her head. 'I don't think,' she said miserably, 'it will come to me. I don't think that kisses
can
start me off. Mr Rivers's kisses never have. Perhaps—perhaps my mouth lacks a certain necessary muscle or nerve—?'

I said, 'For God's sake, miss. Are you a girl, or a surgeon? Of course your mouth will work. Look here.' She had fired me up. She had wound me tight, like a spring. I rose from my pillow. 'Where are your lips?' I said.

'My lips?' she answered, in a tone of surprise. 'They are here.'

I found them, and kissed her.

I knew how to do it all right, for Dainty had shown me, once. Kissing Maud, however, was not like kissing her. It was like kissing the darkness. As if the darkness had life, had a shape, had taste, was warm and glib. Her mouth was still, at first. Then it moved against mine. Then it opened. I felt her tongue. I felt her swallow. I felt—

I had done it, only to show her. But I lay with my mouth on hers and felt, starting up in me, everything I had said would start in her, when Gentleman kissed her. It made me giddy. It made me blush, worse than before. It was like liquor. It made me drunk. I drew away. When her breath came now upon my mouth, it came very cold. My mouth was wet, from hers. I said, in a whisper,

'Do you feel it?'

The words sounded queer; as if the kiss had done something to my tongue. She did not answer. She did not move. She breathed, but lay so still I thought suddenly, 'What if I've put her in a trance? Say she never comes out? What ever will I tell her uncle—?'

Then she shifted a little. And then she spoke.

'I feel it,' she said. Her voice was as strange as mine. 'You have made me feel it. It's such a curious, wanting thing. I never—'

'It wants Mr Rivers,' I said. 'Does it?'

'I think it must.'

'I don't know. I don't know.'

She spoke, unhappily. But she shifted again, and the shift brought her nearer to me. Her mouth came closer to mine. It was like she hardly knew what she was doing; or knew, but could not help it. She said again, 'I'm afraid.'

'Don't be frightened,' I said at once. For I knew that she mustn't be that. Say she got so frightened she cried off marrying him?

That's what I thought. I thought I must show her how to do it, or her fear would spoil our plot. So, I kissed her again. Then I touched her. I touched her face. I began at the meeting of our mouths—at the soft wet corners of our lips—then found her jaw, her cheek, her brow—I had touched her before, to wash and dress her; but never like this. So smooth she was! So warm! It was like I was calling the heat and shape of her out of the darkness—as if the darkness was turning solid and growing quick, under my hand.

She began to shake. I supposed she was still afraid. Then I began to shake, too. I forgot to think of Gentleman, after that. I thought only of her. When her face grew wet with tears, I kissed them away.

'You pearl,' I said. So white she was! 'You pearl, you pearl, you pearl.'

It was easy to say, in the darkness. It was easy to do. But next morning I woke, saw the strips of grey light between the curtains of the bed, remembered what I had done, and thought,
My God
. Maud lay, still sleeping, her brows drawn together in a frown. Her mouth was open. Her lip had grown dry. My lip was dry, too, and I brought up my hand, to touch it. Then I took the hand away. It smelt of her. The smell made me shiver, inside. The shiver was a ghost of the shiver that had seized me—seized us both—as I'd moved against her, in the night.
Being fetched
, the girls of the Borough call it.
Did he fetch you
—? They will tell you it comes on you like a sneeze; but a sneeze is nothing to it, nothing at all—

I shivered again, remembering. I put the tip of one finger to my tongue. It tasted sharp—like vinegar, like blood.

Like money.

I grew afraid. Maud made some movement. I got up, not looking at her. I went to my room. I began to feel ill. Perhaps I
had
been drunk. Perhaps the beer I had had with my supper had been brewed bad. Perhaps I had a fever. I washed my hands and my face. The water was so cold it seemed to sting. I washed between my legs. Then I dressed. Then I waited. I heard Maud wake, and move; and went slowly in to her. I saw her, through the space between her curtains. She had raised herself up from her pillow. She was trying to fasten the strings of her nightdress. I had untied, them in the night.

I saw that, and my insides shivered again. But when she lifted her eyes to mine, I looked away.

I looked away! And she didn't call me to her side. She didn't speak. She watched me move about the room, but she said nothing. Margaret came, with coals and water: I stood pulling clothes from the press while she knelt at the hearth, my face blushing scarlet. Maud kept to her bed. Then Margaret left. I Put out a gown, and petticoats and shoes. I put out water.

'Will you come,' I said, 'so I may dress you?'

She did. She stood, and slowly raised her arms, and I lifted up her gown. Her thighs had a flush upon them. The curls of hair between her legs were dark. Upon her breast there was a crimson bruise, from where I had kissed too hard.

I covered it up. She might have stopped me. She might have put her hands upon mine. She was the mistress, after all! But, she did nothing. I made her go with me to the silvery looking-glass above her fire, and she stood with her eyes cast down while I combed and pinned her hair. If she felt the trembling of my fingers against her face, she didn't say. Only when I had almost finished did she lift her head and catch my gaze. And then she blinked, and seemed to search for words. She said,

'What a thick sleep I had. Didn't I?'

'You did,' I said. My voice was shaking. 'No dreams.'

'No dreams,' she said, 'save one. But that was a sweet one. I think— I think you were in it, Sue…'

She kept her eyes on mine, as if waiting. I saw the blood beat in her throat. Mine beat to match it, my very heart turned in my breast; and I think, that if I had drawn her to me then, she'd have kissed me. If I had said, I love
you
, she would have said it back; and everything would have changed. I might have saved her. I might have found a way—I don't know what—to keep her from her fate. We might have cheated Gentleman. I might have run with her, to Lant Street—

But if I did that, she'd find me out for the villain I was. I thought of telling her the truth; and trembled harder. I couldn't do it. She was too simple. She was too good. If there had only been some stain upon her, some speck of badness in her heart—! But there was nothing. Only that crimson bruise. A single kiss had made it. How would she do, in the Borough?

And then, how would I do, back in the Borough with her at my side?

I heard, again, John's laugh. I thought of Mrs Sucksby. Maud watched my face. I put the last pin to her hair, and then her net of velvet. I swallowed, and said,

'In your dream? I don't think so, miss. Not me. I should say— I should say, Mr Rivers.' I stepped to the window. 'Look, there he is! His cigarette almost smoked already. You will miss him, if you wait!'

We were awkward with each other, all that day. We walked, but we walked apart. She reached to take my arm, and I drew away. And when, that night, I had put her into her bed and stood letting down her curtains, I looked at the empty place beside her and said,

'The nights are grown so warm now, miss. Don't you think you will sleep better on your own… ?'

I went back to my narrow bed, with its sheets like pieces of pastry. I heard her turning, and sighing, all through the night; and I turned, and sighed, myself. I felt that thread that had come between us, tugging, tugging at my heart—so hard, it hurt me. A hundred times I almost rose, almost went in to her; a hundred times I thought,
Go to her! Why are you waiting? Go back to her side
! But every time, I thought of what would happen if I did. I knew that I couldn't lie beside her, without wanting to touch her. I couldn't have felt her breath come upon my mouth, without wanting to kiss her. And I couldn't have kissed her, without wanting to save her.