Moon Rising (15 page)

I shook my head. ‘Only if I must...'

~~~

He wanted to know whether I had ever been away before, and I found myself telling him about my first position, miles inland, and that desire I'd had to come back to the sea. Sympathetically, he patted my hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm, and we moved on, taking the cliff path through the churchyard.

‘I miss the sea,' he confessed. ‘When I was a child we lived on the coast near Dublin, in a house overlooking the bay. My room was at the top – I could see for miles. Never tired of watching the sky and the weather – and all those ships on their separate journeys. When I was ill and couldn't go out, I used to make up stories about them...'

I'd imagined a life of ease in a grand house, so it surprised me to find that his father had been a civil servant, holding a relatively modest position at Dublin Castle. Abraham Stoker, for whom Bram was named, was now dead, but I gathered he'd been a plain man of quiet beliefs, whereas his mother Charlotte was lively and held strong opinions. Brought up in the west of Ireland, she came from a rather more colourful family in which it seemed there were as many rogues and rebels as upstanding supporters of the crown.

I liked the sound of her, and was intrigued to discover later that Charlotte was also twenty years younger than her husband, and that the same gap existed between her son and me. It was the kind of precedent that seemed to lessen the difference, or at least made it acceptable.

It was clear that Bram still revered his mother. She it was who had bullied and cajoled her five sons into doing well, who had insisted on educating them regardless of cost.

‘I suppose I'm a bit of a failure by comparison with my brothers,' he said wryly. ‘After Trinity I had a spell at Dublin Castle myself, but it bored me to tears. I'd always fancied something more colourful – writer or actor, something like that – but the old man got me into the civil service and I had to eat, after all... Ma wasn't keen on my flinging it all up to come to London and work for Irving, but I dare say she thought it preferable to having a son on the stage! I don't know how she'd feel if I should abandon everything now... But still,' he added, ‘she knows the writing's important to me – she's always been rather keen on that.'

His mother's opinion was evidently important to him, and he went on to say that she was proud of the comprehensive legal guide he'd had published before leaving Dublin Castle. And so was he – it made him feel that his time there had not been wasted. She enjoyed his short stories too, especially the mysterious ones which had appeared some years ago in publications like the
Shamrock.
His chief regret was that he hadn't had time, since, to write anything of note.

It seemed he was hoping to put that right while he was here in Whitby, and I found that intriguing. But for the time being I was more interested in what Florence thought. ‘And what about your wife?'

Out of the gathering darkness there came a little bark of laughter. ‘Oh, I don't think she thinks much of adventure stories and suchlike! No, so long as Florence has her friends, her busy social round, and a good allowance, she's happy.'

As we paused on the cliffs above the little crescent of Saltwick Bay, I tried to imagine their married life, and failed. ‘Didn't she mind you coming away on holiday without her?'

‘I think she was more relieved than anything,' he said dismissively. ‘She's been telling me for ages I should take some time off.'

I thought about that for a while, and wondered why a wife would encourage her husband to holiday without her. It seemed a most unusual arrangement. I wondered whether she loved him at all, but found my thoughts expressing themselves contrariwise.

‘Do you love her?' I whispered cautiously, part-hoping my words would be lost against the sighing of the waves below.

I felt him turn towards me, felt a tightening of the tension between us; then he looked away, out to sea, where there was still a faint, pale rim of light on the horizon. ‘Love her? But of course I do,' he said drily, ‘she's my wife, the mother of my son.'

He loved them both so much, he needed to escape – needed to come back to Whitby where the sea met the sky, where even on a night like this a fresh breeze whistled over the cliffs. Chilled and more than a little confused, I moved away.

Here, the path was far from safe and it was too dark to go on. It was time to turn back, to cut inland. We walked in silence for a while, me slightly ahead, showing the way along a field path edged with swags of fading blossom.

After a moment or two he came up beside me, laughing a little. ‘Damaris, don't hurry away. You're like a ghost, flitting ahead in the darkness, impossible for me to catch.' So I took a deep breath and slowed even more, while he captured my hand, slipping an arm around my waist to keep me close along that narrow path. I was very conscious of his touch, its weight and confidence, so very different from Jonathan's. As we walked I could feel the movement of his thigh against my hip, slightly awkward because of the difference in height and stride, but unexpectedly stirring. By the time we reached the stile my peevishness was forgotten.

The wooden steps were high, and to climb them I had to gather up my skirts. I was perfectly capable, but he insisted on going first and helping me across. I paused at the top, smiling – and thus enjoyed the novel sensation of being lifted down. Strong hands at my waist, a momentary helplessness, being held against him as he set me on my feet again – these things were so new, I could have been charmed by them alone. But this was a man I liked, a man I found attractive, a man who liked me. His touch left me feeling weak and breathless.

Perhaps my smile was too wide, or my eyes, like his, were shining too bright; perhaps too, he was remembering the first time and that unexpected flare of passion. As he bent his head towards me, I raised myself on tiptoe to meet his kiss, and this time we came together hungrily. His tongue invaded my mouth with warm, shocking intimacy, and at once it felt like falling, or diving too deep beneath the waves – I no longer knew who I was or where, whether I was on my head or my heels, or even, for a moment, with whom. When we parted at last, I was afraid to let go, head spinning, ears ringing, lips burning, while he leaned against the stile, drawing me with him as he sank down onto the step.

With arms around each other we paused to draw breath, rescued each other's hats from the grass beneath our feet, and then, suddenly, mutually, began to laugh. It was part delight in those sensations but mostly astonishment, I think, that we could have abandoned ourselves so thoroughly.

Stars and a young crescent moon hung over the abbey, making a discernible reflection in the pool before it. At night, enhanced by its clifftop position, the place had an eerie beauty, and although I often thought it bleaker by day, most visitors found the ruins romantic. Bram was no exception. As we approached he seemed entranced by the sight of the great east end, intact with its tiers of lancet windows and Gothic turrets to either side.

From the road it looked far more substantial than it really was, and since I was jealous of his attention I made an attempt to impress by telling him the place was haunted by a white lady, thought to be the Lady Hilda, a Northumbrian princess who had founded the abbey. ‘You see, it wasn't just for men,' I informed him. ‘In those days everybody lived together – men, women and children – and Lady Hilda ruled over them all. They do say she can be seen sometimes, looking out of one of the windows...'

‘Do you believe in ghosts?' he asked, giving my shoulders an affectionate squeeze.

I took a moment to reply. ‘Maybe not during the day – I'm not so sure in the dark.'

‘Nor me,' he agreed, glancing up at the great Gothic arches. ‘Can we go in?'

‘No, the gate's bound to be locked by now. Anyway, there's nothing much to see,' I said, a shade desperately, since I could tell he'd made up his mind to find some means of entry. ‘This is practically all there is. The rest fell down years ago.'

‘But I want to go in.'

‘Tomorrow...'

‘It won't be the same tomorrow,' he said implacably. ‘Come on now, Damaris, you live here, surely you know how to get in.' He kissed my forehead, but it was more in coercion than blessing.

He was right, I did know, and my heart quickened as I studied the best approach. The gate was high and the wall too smooth to climb; but back along the road, by the pool which had once been the abbey's fish-pond, there was a place where it was possible to gain access to a meadow, and from there to climb a much lower post-and-rail fence into the abbey grounds.

‘You know, this is private property,' I whispered. ‘If we get caught, we could be prosecuted!'

‘That's a fallacy, Damaris. We could only be prosecuted for criminal damage, and as we're merely
looking . . .'

‘But what if we get
caught
?'

‘We won't,' he said confidently. ‘Trust me.'

Oddly enough, I did, even though it was more along the lines of trusting him to get us
out
of trouble once we were in it. His grey linen jacket was dark enough to blend into the landscape, while my pale dress made me feel extremely vulnerable. With anxious giggles as we squeezed through the hedge, I worried about being seen by some curious farm worker or vigilant night-watchman. Bram's lighthearted suggestion that I could pretend to be the Lady Hilda had me smothering horrified laughter. In the next moment I was smothering curses too, as the hawthorn caught first my sleeve and then my finger as I struggled to be free.

‘Be still now,' Bram said softly, working carefully to release the material without tearing it. There – I think the sleeve's all right. How about you?'

‘Fine – I just stabbed myself, that's all. It's nothing, just bleeding a bit – only I don't want it to spoil my dress.'

‘Here...' But even as he produced a handkerchief, he raised my hand to his mouth and sucked the blood away. The feel of his tongue against my index finger was another shock, astonishingly intimate, as though he were touching me in secret places, exploring and caressing like a lover. I felt myself blushing and pulled back, but he kept hold of my wrist and neatly wrapped the clean handkerchief around the offending finger. ‘There,' he murmured, ‘your dress saved and not a drop spilled.'

Did he know? The way he looked, I thought he must; thought he would surely kiss me again, and was disappointed when he did not. Instead he took my hand and helped me over the next fence before striding purposefully across the open stretch of grass before the abbey. Admiring his nerve but fearful of it, I clung to his side for safety.

He gazed up at those towering walls, stark against the starlit sky, entered the roofless choir and paced its length like an archbishop; he ran his hands around vast sandstone piers, pulling me with him to investigate the darker arcades of the north aisle and transept. The southern side of the abbey church was completely open – cloisters, aisles and towers long gone, ruined by wind and weather, then stolen piecemeal over the centuries for building work elsewhere.

Remains of more recent falls were still in evidence here and there, blurred by the silhouettes of shrubs and stunted trees; in sheltered corners, clumps of scented pinks had found a home. Following their elusive fragrance down the nave, I stood beneath the carved arch of the old west doorway, and found tiny flowers nodding in profusion all around. Below lay the parish church and below that, unseen from here, the harbour. Through a faint haze I could see the glow of lights over on the west cliff, the outline of the Crescent where Bram was staying and, nearby, the Cragg.

He came up behind me, breathing deeply, to lay an unexpectedly gentle hand on my shoulder. As his arms enfolded me, I sighed and leaned against him, and we stood there for some time, looking out across the town and cliffs. I found I liked that sense of strength and protection, the feeling that he cared; it was almost fatherly, and I'd missed that. Having it now made me want to hold on at any price. And I liked his smell, a reassuring blend of soap and cigars and maleness, which after a while made me turn to bury my face against his shirt front and rub my cheek against his beard.

All at once I was shivery with anticipation, and so was he. His masculinity excited me, the firmness of his lips, the rough texture of his beard against my skin, the strong fingers holding and exploring my body with wonderful unfamiliarity. His touch could not have been less like a woman's, and that sharpened my desire even more. I even encouraged him with caresses of my own, sighing with pleasure as he unfastened my bodice, and making no objection when he raised me a little to sit on a smooth stone ledge. Above the knee my thighs were bare, and on pushing back my petticoats he seemed astonished to discover no further impediments. I gasped at his touch, even parted my legs obligingly, so he must have thought me well experienced in such adventures. But if he was suddenly hasty, I was lamentably ignorant, so it was disconcerting then to discover awkwardness where I'd expected an easy end to my virginity.

Clinging to his shoulders, I gritted my teeth. The pain and difficulty were more than I'd bargained for; I cried out sharply and with a smothered exclamation he held me tight, breathing hard against my neck. As we kissed I felt his eagerness and rejoiced in it, surprised by a rapidly mounting pleasure that went far beyond anything I'd experienced before. But at the last moment, just as I was learning the rhythm, he moaned and shuddered and quickly withdrew. The act was over, the union broken. I couldn't help myself; I clung to him and burst into tears.

Gasping, sweating, swallowing hard, he held me close, then turned and drew me across his lap, holding me like a child. He patted my shoulder and kissed my wet cheek, thankfully saying nothing until I was calmer. But once he'd recovered himself I think he hardly knew what to make of me. The apparently innocent girl had turned into a woman of some experience, offering eager encouragement; then, unexpectedly, she'd revealed herself as a virgin, complete with blood and pain and tears. The handkerchief that had staunched my torn finger was used again to wipe the streaks from my thighs. At his exclamations of dismay I wanted to say I'd suffered worse, but it was seductive, being fussed over, so I hid my face instead.