The Skull and the Nightingale (20 page)

He turned away to speak to the colonel, but his words, as he must have anticipated, had given my mind an electrical shock. I recollected our previous conversation about Mrs. Hurlock. Had she been invited to stay in order to put her at my disposal? Would my godfather lose faith in me if I failed to take advantage of this opportunity?

To enhance my confusion I found myself seated at table between Mrs. Hurlock and her friend Mrs. Ford. It quickly became apparent that the latter lady, perhaps twenty years the elder, was something of a cipher, content to eat, drink, and nod. I could devote my attention to my singing partner and—as now seemed outrageously possible—prospective mistress. An obvious gesture was to offer my commiserations concerning her late brother-in-law, but she seemed little interested in that gentleman, whom she had met, she said, very seldom. She was far readier to talk about the performance to come. My godfather had marked one or two songs as being, in his view, particularly suited to us, and we quickly agreed on those and a few others, and on the order in which we should sing them. Mrs. Hurlock confided that she had practiced all the songs in the book.

“I was free to do so because my husband has been away. Between ourselves he is no great lover of music.”

This I had no difficulty in believing. It was remarkable to me how much more spirited she seemed on this occasion than in either of our previous meetings, whether because of the prospect of singing, or simply through freedom from the oppressive presence of Mr. Hurlock. She did remark that music excited her in rather the same way, she thought, as hunting excited her husband.

I maintained this dialogue while all the time apprehensive as to how the evening might end. It seemed preposterous that my godfather should be inciting me to seduce this older woman, the wife of a friend, in his own house. Yet how else was I to construe the sudden summons when Hurlock was away, and the unusual arrangement that his wife should be passing the night there? I asked myself whether I would be physically capable of coition with this buxom matron, and was relieved to conclude that there should be no difficulty on that score, at least. Whether because she was more vivacious tonight, or because I was rallying to the challenge, I felt potentially aroused, even potentially formidable. It stirred me to be making lighthearted conversation with the respectable Mrs. Hurlock while thinking
In a few hours I may reduce you to a very different state.
I was encouraged in this bravado by noticing that the lady once or twice glanced at me in a manner that in a younger woman could have seemed provocative.

My immersion in this personal drama was so complete that I scarcely observed, and certainly cannot recollect with any clarity, what else was taking place at the table. I have a general sense that my godfather presided with his habitual courtesy, ensuring that no guest was neglected. Mrs. Quentin remained reticent, eating with caution. The older guests questioned Mr. Rowley, and Thorpe coaxed the colonel’s daughters into conversation.

For the performance we retired to the drawing room, where chairs had been set out in front of the harpsichord. It was a relief to me that Mrs. Hurlock and our accompanist were confident in their abilities. I might find this the easiest part of the evening.

We began with a simple duet, “Now Philomel, in Leafy Darkness Lost,” which was greeted warmly. I could see the colonel expressing vigorous approval to my godfather. After a second such piece, “I Mourn the Fading Rose,” was similarly received, Mrs. Quentin played Barton’s “Court Minuet” with skill and feeling. It was pleasant to see her blush of gratification as she acknowledged the applause with a tight little smile.

We now came to the two songs my godfather had marked. Mrs. Hurlock, in excellent voice, was quite transformed in singing and even enacting the first of them, nonsense though it was. I could almost see a trace of Kitty Brindley in her performance:

“Let Strephon claim

My heart is cold:

I never wished him ill.

I love him not,

And told him so,

Yet he pursues me still.

Am I to blame

If he had hopes

That I cannot fulfill?

I love him not—

Yet give him leave

To love me if he will.”

The song chosen for me could have been a response to this coquettish rejection:

“It were too craven to be calm

When she for whom I burn

Will feel no pity for my plight.

She stole my heart without a qualm,

May I not steal in turn?

Too cruel still, she scorns my pray’rs

And mocks my piteous sighs.

Say, Cupid, have I not the right

To steal upon her unawares,

And take what she denies?”

We concluded in duet once more: a rendition of Mr. Handel’s ornate setting of Tennant’s couplets:

“Conflicting passions vex my troubled soul,

Too bold, too rash for reason to control.

Let hope and doubt, resistance and desire,

Dissolve as one in love’s transforming fire.”

Our little audience seemed delighted with this performance, clapping vigorously, to the obvious pleasure of Mrs. Quentin and Mrs. Hurlock. I would have been pleased enough myself had I been less conscious of the possible implications of the last three songs. We had sung them, as the occasion seemed to require, with small hints of interplay which for our listeners would have been mere gestures, but which to me seemed truly insinuating.

Mr. Gilbert having thanked us in a few becoming sentences, the company reverted to general conversation, of which I now recall little. The colonel and his wife were complimentary; I spent some time with Mr. Quentin, neither of us mentioning his London visit; Thorpe congratulated me upon my singing and remarked that he was particularly pleased to see the two ladies, often overshadowed in company, so confident and so accomplished. I participated in these exchanges without thought. Like a man about to fight a duel I felt my mind concentrated, my senses quickened, and my heart beating hard. Across the room Mrs. Hurlock was talking with my godfather; once or twice she glanced in my direction with what could be seen as a collusive smile. Yet what of that? We had indeed colluded in song.

My task was clear. But where was the attempt to be made? What did my godfather have in mind? The situation was absurd. What little I knew about this lady was powerfully dissuasive: she was married, a mother, twenty years my senior. My very future might be decided by this venture; but if I was successful no reward was guaranteed, and if I failed the consequence could be appalling.

My godfather drew me aside.

“The power of song has been at work,” he said. “I fancy Mrs. Hurlock now sees you quite in a pastoral light.”

I sought for an answer. “She seems to be enjoying the evening . . .”

“She does indeed. I hope she will find more to enjoy.”

With which words he slipped away, leaving me to engage my tongue in further exchanges with Mrs. Ford.

Soon afterward the first carriages were called: the elderly guests departed, as did the colonel and his family. My moment of trial was coming nearer. The Quentins and Mr. Thorpe left together. It appeared that Mr. Rowley would be staying the night, but since he was to set out early the next morning he begged leave to retire. My godfather ushered myself, Mrs. Ford, and Mrs. Hurlock through to a smaller drawing room.

“We must surely talk a little more,” he said, “before we retire in our turn.”

As we went he murmured to me: “Mrs. Hurlock is to sleep in the room you usually occupy. It would be a strange business if you went to it by mistake, from sheer habit.”

So here was the final hint—or instruction. I was to assail Mrs.Hurlock in the bed where I had been accustomed to sleep. If she shrieked and woke the house, my single shred of excuse would be that I had broken in upon her in error.

Mr. Gilbert, in excellent spirits, insisted that we all four, even the ladies, should drink some port. Mrs. Hurlock assented readily, but Mrs. Ford, by now tired, would take only a little.

“Let me observe once more,” said my godfather, “how much pleasure our musicians gave me tonight. You were both in excellent voice. Mrs. Hurlock, I hope you enjoyed the performance as much as I did.”

Mrs. Hurlock, bright-eyed and a little flushed, replied: “I have enjoyed the evening more than I can say. I was transported into another world.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” said Mr. Gilbert.

Seizing the moment, I said: “I could not have wished for a better partner in song.”

The words won me a glance of complaisance, but I could have no idea how things were in the lady’s mind and body. Were the intimations I had noticed an instinctive reversion to youthful coquetry? Or might she be feeling merely a maternal impulse of fondness? Most likely of all, was she not simply making the most of an agreeable evening which she now felt had come to its end?

Soon enough Mrs. Ford was seen to stifle a small yawn and plainly wished to retire. A maidservant was summoned to show her to her room. Mrs. Hurlock chose to withdraw at the same time. I fancied I received one last look of complicity from her.

When they had gone my godfather poured some more port: “In the circumstances I think half a glass should be sufficient.”

He remained standing but drank unhurriedly, and with his usual air of discriminating enjoyment. To the casual eye he would have seemed absorbed in calm reflection, but I noticed, as once before, a slight tremulousness in the hand that held the glass.

“Now I shall retire,” he said. “I leave you to your own devices.”

With a nod he was gone, and I was alone with my responsibility.

As I drank the last of the wine I assessed my situation as coolly as I could. I was hot and aroused, my heart by now fairly pounding. My room was directly above the one to which Mrs. Hurlock had retired. If my intrusion caused instant outrage, I might just be able to plead that, tired and a little intoxicated, I had mistakenly followed an accustomed route. But such a defense would be available for less than half a minute. I would have to make an instant appraisal of Mrs. Hurlock’s response, and either retreat at once or force the issue.

I left the drawing room and stood still for a moment, aware of the great dark space of the house all about me. Somewhere a maid would be lurking, charged with putting out candles, closing windows, and locking doors. But the hall and the staircase were silent. I climbed cautiously to the floor above: silence again. Before me stretched a long passage, illuminated dimly, but sufficiently, by the moonlight that slanted through a single large window at the end. The last door on the right before that window was the one I would have to enter. I crept up to it, listened for a moment, but heard nothing within. The moment had come: I turned the handle, went in swiftly, and closed the door behind me.

My sense of anticipation was so keen that I registered what followed with extreme exactness. The curtain of the window opposite had been drawn back, so that the moon shone directly into the room. The lady, in a white nightgown, had been looking out, but she instantly turned to face me. I walked slowly toward her through the moonlight, but she made no attempt to cry out or to speak. Only as I put my hand on her plump shoulder did I hear a low voice: “What are you doing?”

I whispered back: “Have I not the right to take what she denies?”

“But—but I am a married woman.”

She raised a hand as though to push me away, but I set it aside.

“Someone will hear us . . .”

It was all the invitation I needed. I put my arms around her and pressed her to me. The indistinct moonlit lady felt large and warm, and as I kissed her wet mouth she was once more Mrs. Hurlock, a plump country matron. What the devil was I about? But the game was afoot now, and there could be no turning back. Still with my mouth on hers, I walked her stumblingly toward the bed. She whimpered a little but offered no resistance. I pushed her backward across the bed and threw up her nightdress: a little effort and the deed would be done. But as Strephon fumbled at his breeches to free his trusty whore-pipe the wayward Chloe stumbled to her feet and pushed him away.

“No!” she cried. “No, no, no!”

I made to embrace her again, but she shook herself free. When I seized her shoulders she pushed away my face and then scratched at me. Suddenly I was in a fuddled rage: here I was gallantly endeavoring to pleasure this frump and she was attacking me for my pains. I wrenched her off me, flung her face-forward across the bed, lifted her nightdress again, and delivered two mighty slaps to her plump buttocks. She squawked and wept and was still: the fight was won. I turned her about and pushed her legs apart. A fumble at her privities, warm and moist, assured me that I would be compelling her to do exactly what her body desired. She yelped again as I forced myself deep into her, and what with the long anticipation, the anxiety, and the incitement of her final struggle, I was betrayed, by that one thrust, into the shuddering gushes of completion.

The engagement thus summarily concluded, I collapsed upon my new mistress sweating, panting, and horrified. My conquest had become instant ignominy, my stout victim was in tears, and I had laid myself open to a charge of rape.

In the silence my breathing and my heartbeat slowly settled but my mind did not. I was lost for words—lost for so much as a single idea. Why had I ventured on this absurd and shameful assault. No mere apology could meet the situation.
Forgive me, madam, your charms were too great to resist . . . ?
The mere attempt would be grotesque. Yet was I to fasten my breeches and shuffle away without speaking? Whatever I said or did, I was a ruined man—the drunken Mohock who had galloped his horse over a cliff. If Mrs. Hurlock should now rouse the house, my godfather would have no alternative but to disown me.