Home for Christmas (13 page)

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.

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.

She pensively linked her arm through his, glancing up at him sidelong, studying the strong jaw, the high cheekbones, the dark blond hair that framed his face. She felt safe with him and there was also something else; a stirring she’d never felt for any man before.

Their clothes were thick and heavy; she found herself wondering how much of Robert’s body she would feel if both of them were more lightly clothed … or even … Suddenly she felt overly warm inside. She needed to curb her imagination.

‘Where’s Agnes?’ said Lydia.

‘Helping her mother.’

‘You seem very close to her.’

‘I’ve known her all my life. We used to play together when we were children.’

‘You didn’t mind that she was just the cook’s daughter?’

He shook his head quite vigorously. ‘Agnes was the only other child living in the household. Sir Avis paid for her education …’

He stopped as though something had just occurred to him. ‘He’s very fond of her. He’s always been fond of her, having no family of his own.’

‘That was very good of him.’

‘I think he felt sorry that her father had deserted her mother.’

‘She’s great fun, and quite ladylike at times. Has she always been like that?’

He laughed. ‘Hardly. She’s quite a tomboy actually.’

As they approached the house, they espied a figure, hair flying, running along the parapet at the front of the house. The figure, unmistakably Agnes, came to an abrupt stop at the bottom of the steps leading to the front door. She looked alarmed.

‘Lydia! Where have you been? I was coming to find you but Robert said that he would.’

‘Sylvester locked me in the grotto.’

Agnes grimaced, sniffed and tossed her tangled mane. ‘He did that to me once when I was a child. Sir Avis gave him six of the best. He never did it again.’

‘I think he’s too old to be given six of the best now,’ Lydia responded with a grimace of her own.

Sylvester was standing in front of the Christmas tree when they entered the house.

‘Lydia,’ he said, beaming at her as though they were the best of friends, ‘ready to decorate the tree, my sweet?’

‘I couldn’t reach the keys,’ Lydia responded sourly though she couldn’t help smiling a little at the sight of the bruise below Sylvester’s right eye.

‘Another of your little games,’ said Robert to Sylvester. ‘I swear you get stupider year by year.’

‘The girl should be flattered that I paid her such attention. She’s only a doctor’s daughter after all, and he’s a foreigner at that! Anyway, no harm done. All I did was give her a bit of a squeeze!’

Sylvester didn’t see the fist coming. It hit him squarely on the jaw. Arms flailing, he tottered backwards, his legs finally folding under him so he lay splayed on the floor.

Robert stood over him, his body trembling with anger, his hair flopped across his face. He pointed down at his cousin.

‘Never again, or I’ll black your other eye. Do you hear me? Never again.’

‘Did you know that Sir Avis’s Aunt Peridot is a suffragist? She was one of the very first in fact. I think I might become one too, though I think I could be one of the more violent ones. I quite fancy smashing a few windows and chaining myself to the railings shouting for votes for women,’ whispered Agnes.

It was around four in the morning and still dark outside. Agnes and her mother were getting up in plenty of time to prepare everything for the Christmas feast.