Home for Christmas (12 page)

Sylvester, she decided, had a purpose. She couldn’t help the feeling of unease. He struck her as spoilt, the child who had been denied nothing. The selfish child who had grown into a self-centred man.

The path they walked along wound through bushes and down over steps, through an avenue of shrubs that turned this way and that before sloping down to a lake.

Sylvester nudged Lydia’s arm. ‘We go swimming here in the summer. All three of us. No costumes of course.’ He grinned at her salaciously. His implication was clear. He was saying that Agnes too bathed naked with them.

‘That was when we were children,’ said Agnes flashing an angry glare in Sylvester’s direction.

‘No swimming today,’ declared Robert.

‘I hear you’re a nurse,’ said Sylvester. ‘I must say I love to see women in uniforms. There’s something very appealing about all that starched linen and being ordered around. If you ever fancy giving anyone a bed bath, I’m your man.’

Lydia felt her cheeks burning.

Robert grabbed his cousin’s shoulder, jerking him backwards so they were level, Robert’s handsome face looking down into his.

‘Siggy, old chap.’ He used his cousin’s nickname in the same way as a knight might once have thrown down a gauntlet. ‘Do you see that lake? Can you imagine how cold it is?’

Sylvester looked dumbly at the lake. It was quite large and fringed with bulrushes. A stone-built grotto bearing more than a passing resemblance to a Greek temple stood at one end.

‘If you do not apologise immediately, old chap, I will throw you into that water. No doubt, you will emerge a lot cooler once I do that. Do you understand me, Siggy? Do you?’

Sylvester managed a weak smile. ‘No harm meant, Robert. I admire nurses. They do a grand job. A very grand job.’

‘Apologise,’ said Robert, his fingers now entwined in the thick woollen scarf wound around his cousin’s neck, tugging it backwards as though he would throttle him.

‘I apologise, Lydia. No offence intended. Do you forgive me, my sweet?’

His expression was congenial; the look in his eyes was not.

Feeling discomfited and something of an interloper in this group, Lydia made a decision.

‘If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll make my way back to the house. I didn’t tell my father I was going out. He’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’

Robert offered to go with her. ‘You might not be able to find your way.’

‘She’s not helpless, Robert,’ Agnes pointed out.

Lydia sensed Agnes wanted her to go. She wanted Robert to herself.

Lydia shook her head. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine. I wouldn’t want to spoil your walk. Besides, you three are old friends. There must be lots of things you want to discuss without a stranger listening in.’

Robert smiled kindly at her. ‘Lydia, from what Agnes has told me, I don’t think you’re going to be a stranger to us for very long.’

‘I hope not.’

‘If you’re sure you will be all right?’

‘I’m sure,’ she said in her most resolute manner. ‘And thank you for the birthday party. You especially, Agnes. It was very thoughtful of you.’

She walked briskly away, thinking more about Robert’s smile than either Agnes or Sylvester and his silly comments.

She really had felt like an interloper; no matter that Agnes was only the cook’s daughter, these three had known each other since they were children. They were close. She, Lydia, was the outsider.

Being the outsider was never easy; her father had told her that. He’d come to England in pursuit of her mother whom he’d met at that lakeside hotel in Austria. Emily Wilson was the reason he’d ended up practising medicine in England.

From the very start, he had made great efforts to fit in and become an English gentleman. He had concluded that to do so he needed to court middle- and upper-class patients. He’d most certainly made his mark with rich patrons without neglecting his poorer patients.

The German hospital in London catered for those of German extraction, mainly sugar workers and Jewish people fleeing from oppression in Europe who had settled in the East End of London.

The East End was a melting pot of ethnic diversity and on those days of the week when he administered there, he slipped easily back into the German tongue. Those he treated worked hard and although they didn’t earn much, they maintained that the country they’d settled in was the greatest and most tolerant in the entire world.

He still feels like an outsider, she thought with some surprise as she wandered along the path she considered would take her back to the house. He feels like an outsider, just as I did back there with Agnes, Robert and Sylvester.

The house seemed further away going back and the late afternoon was turning colder. The last leaves were blowing from the trees, scuttling like wingless birds across the ground.

Fearing that the path she was on might not be the right one after all, she looked around her.

The white mist that was earlier hanging like torn veils from the trees had thickened.

The sensible solution was to go back the way she had come, get her bearings and set off again.

She rounded a stone balustrade, past a huge urn overflowing with dark green ivy and went down some steps. As well as the mist thickening, the afternoon light was fading. She had to hurry.

A sound carried through the mist. She stopped, craning her neck, and called out.

There was no answer.

The cry of an owl, out early for a night of hunting, startled her. She backed into a box hedge, looking from side to side. Agnes had said something about a maze. What if she’d wandered into the maze? How would she find her way out?

Except for an infrequent, shrill cry from something unseen, the beating of her heart seemed the only sound left in the world.

The sudden splash of something landing in water suggested to her that she had come full circle and was back down by the lake. A patch of clearness appeared in the mist. Ahead of her, dark, rocky and overhanging the lakeside path, she espied the grotto.

‘Lydia!’

She jumped as a dark figure loomed out of the mist on the side furthest away from the lake. She recognised Sylvester, his hair bright as a candle.

‘It’s you,’ she said, sighing with relief. ‘Thank goodness. You frightened me.’

He grinned boyishly.

‘Typical girl. You got yourself lost.’

‘I didn’t mean to. I mean, this is the first time I’ve been here.’

‘So it is. Good for you that I’m around to rescue you.’

‘Yes. Yes it is. I don’t mind the mist, but I don’t like these places.’ She nodded towards the dark opening of the grotto.

He laughed and a strange look stole across his eyes as though a sudden thought had come to him.

‘Nothing to be frightened of. Nothing at all. Have you heard of the Great God Pan?’ he asked, his broad chest only inches from hers, his blue eyes, a blue as deep as that on a willow-pattern plate, looking down into her face.

She nodded, maintaining a brave expression, though quite honestly she didn’t trust him.

‘One of the old Greek legends.’

‘That’s right. Pan. Priapus,’ he said, his voice almost drooling over the word. ‘He was half goat and half man – and he drank a lot. Wine mostly I believe. I do hope it was always a good vintage. I can’t stand mediocre wines, can you?’

‘I’m not a connoisseur. My opinion wouldn’t mean much.’

‘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.